Wake up. Coffee. Bathroom. Commute. Work. Overtime. Commute. Sleep.

Repeat.

Slowly but surely, you had turned into a cog in the massive corporate machine that had employed you. The boredom that came with the hellish normalcy of office work, mixed with the fact that you simply didn't have enough time to think about travel, love, or even friends as the manager of the entire floor, was getting to you. Day by day, week by week.

Even during the weekends, you couldn't unwind. On Fridays, you were too exhausted to go out. Saturdays, you spent most of the day stressing about finding something productive to do. And on Sundays, the anxious realization that an entire week of work lay ahead made relaxation impossible.

To make it worse, you had nobody to blame but yourself. Colleagues and higher-ups had told you to take more days off. Friends were wondering why you weren't hanging out with them anymore. But ever the ambitious woman, you always pushed ahead, clocking in an average of 12 hours overtime every week, living off of food deliveries, and delaying your vacation for a better time that somehow never came.

There were always meetings to attend, employees to manage, documents to write, and speeches to deliver. There were always work-trips, deadlines, promotions, reports and unforeseen events to worry about.

All the while staying strong and confident when interacting with the roughly 30 men and women you managed on the floor. Never showing any weakness. Always being in charge. Always being in control.

Despite the stresses that came with the role, you wore it like a second skin. It was all you'd known these past years. Being the leader, being the one people looked up to when they needed help or guidance. It was comfortable. It was known. It was safe.

A close friend had said as much:

"You're a control-freak. You need to stop being so 100% all the time."

You'd scoffed her off that day, not giving her words too much thought. But then in those lonely nights when you had time to pause and reflect, you sometimes found yourself wondering how it would feel to just let go. To put everything on a break. To cease being the leader, and for once have someone else make decisions and organize everything. If not at work, then at least in your private life.

If only you had the time to go out and meet people...

"A controversial new brothel has rocked Berlin's suburbs. It has long been known that the primary clients of sex workers are men. But a new establishment in the Eastern section of the city, located in a renovated warehouse from the cold war, is evening the numbers."

The reporter's voice buzzed from the television as you cleaned off cheetos from your stained underwear. A few crumbs hung onto your hairy legs, which you grabbed and washed down with some vodka & coke.

"Going by the name of 'Studio 69 Women's Wellness Center', the establishment offers a variety of services ranging from massages and manicures to yoga and tanning beds. But the one thing that sets this apart from any other wellness studio, is that it also offers sexual services as part of its wellness routines." The reporter on the screen was standing underneath a massive neon-sign carrying the name of the brothel. It buzzed and flashed in and out every few seconds, lighting up the head of the journalist as she walked in to meet the owner.

"Some have criticized the Studio for encouraging promiscuity by treating sex as just another form of stress relief. But Engelbertha Schröder, the head of the company operating these brothels, thinks the critics are misguided."

A woman in her 50s dressed in pink pantsuit flashed before the screen: "I don't understand the criticism. What we do is nothing different than the dozens of male-oriented brothels in the city. I think there is this double standard where if men buy sex, it's just boys being boys. But if women do the same, oh then suddenly society is apparently falling apart. At Studio 69, we do not encourage anyone to cheat on their spouses. But we're also not going to run background checks on our clients or interrogate them. If a woman wants to visit our establishment for some skincare or a relaxing massage, we'll provide it for her. And if she wants a happy ending, then we'll sure as hell do that as well."

The report went on for some more minutes. A blonde woman who's voice and eyes was altered to protect her identity came onto the screen:

"Why I visit Studio 69? Well, I'm a psychology student working really hard on my master thesis. It's so stressful and draining. So when I heard about this place, I promised myself I would visit next time I was in Berlin... and it's amazing. I had three guys go down on me and give me by far the best orgasms I've ever had. They know what they're doing! Massages, tons of foreplay, smoothing words and... those bodies... They were built like supermodels!"

Another anonymous woman appeared on screen:

"It's the one thing I look forward to every time my pension paycheck arrives. In my 70 years in this world, I've never been loved in such a way... It's one of the most relaxing and yet intense experiences you can have. My husband? Oh, he died last year."

You threw more cheetos in your mouth as you googled the name of the brothel and the address. Engelbertha Schröder was right. Why should only men get to enjoy sex workers? Besides, you'd been on all the dating sites: tons of generic looking men who for some reason can't take proper pictures, cheesy pick-up lines, boring conversations, unsolicited dick pics, and lovers who seldom cared about your pleasure.

Why endure all that when you could spend a tiny fraction of your paycheck and have, as one of the women described it, literal supermodels make love to you? It wasn't like you were interested in anything long-term anyways given your horrid work-life balance.

Deciding to give the establishment a try, for the first time in ages, you went to the bathroom and unpacked a razor, ready to prepare your body for a man. Or men...

"Welcome to Studio 69," a tall dark-haired man wearing a tight-sitting suit greeted you, his eyes sharp and his voice rough as sand. "How can I help you?"

Nervous and on the verge of calling everything off, you gave him your name. He didn't need to check the computer: your appointment was extraordinary enough that he remembered.

"You're beautiful, but I don't think we need to tell you that," he smiled and gestured you to follow. "The men are already waiting. You get to choose five of them for your session."

He led you inside a lounge where 12 men were sitting on a sofa. When you entered, they all stood up and started circling you, their eyes exploring your curves and checking out your reaction to their bodies.

They came in all sizes and colors: There was a tall man who seemed to pack enough meat to split you in two, there was a man with black chest hair and thick forearms you imaged around your neck, and of course there were the supermodels, each with eyes, jawlines and bodies that made your legs feel weak.

It was hard choosing between them. Each seemed perfect in their own way. After some indecisiveness, you signaled for the man in suit to approach you.

"Can I... have all of them?" you whispered.

The man chuckled at first. Then he realized you were serious: "Well, not all of them as we might get other customers. But you could increase the number to 9 for the next two hours."

"And can I pick you?"

"That depends on how much you can pay."

You gave him a sultry smile: "I can pay... for you, and the nine others that are available."

Clad in a bathrobe, you entered the room where the men were waiting on a kingsized bed. With all eyes resting on your forms, they once more stood up and began circling you, slowly as if they were a pack of animals. This time, there was little concern for your personal space. You felt someone's breath at the back of your neck. Then kisses and sensual hands caressing and exploring your body underneath the bathrobe.

"Is it okay if we remove this?" the man who'd greeted you at the reception whispered.

You gave him a nod. He pulled you closer to his body and went for a kiss while his hands undid the robe. The other men pulled closer to your sides and back, still touching and groping your forms.

Suddenly, you were lifted from the ground and carried to a sideroom. A small massage bed was at the center. After gently putting you down, two men stepped forward and worked their hands on your strained muscles, kneading every ounce of them into softness, while the other men watched.

At first, it was tough relaxing when you were naked and the center of attention of so many. But the more they worked on you, the easier it became, until all you could think about was the stress and tightness of your neck and the back of your head oozing out with their touch.

You were floating on the massage bed. Ecstatic, euphoric, excited.

Once the massage neared its end, the men carried you back to the kingsized bed and continued the assault. Apart from the two men who gave the massage, their touches were less skillful, but they made up for it by finally focusing on the erogenous zones between your legs.

Soon, testosterone-laden sweat and strained grunts surrounded your naked body. Each man had found an orifice, bodypart, or joint to either kiss, grope, pinch, finger or pin.

At the bottom were two men kissing and sucking on your toes while holding your legs apart for easier access to your holes.

Joining them were both of the masseuses laying between your legs. One was busy fingering and eating out your pussy, while the other pushed, circled, and stretched your tight asshole with two lubed fingers, preparing you for what was to come.

A little further up, you had two more men on each side. One pair gave kisses and light massages to your underbelly; the other pair pinned your arms to the bed while cupping your pretty little tits, and sucking or biting onto your nipples.

When you'd registered your appointment, you'd been given a long list of things you wanted to include or exclude for your session. In the pain section, you had the choice between no pain, light pain, some pain and intense pain.

As this was your first session, you'd signed up for the second choice. And so they gave you what you wanted: mild discomfort mixed with the dozens of sensations caused by the other studs surrounding your exposed, pinned down body.

The final two men were behind you. The first one, the receptionist you'd greeted upon arrival, had his back against the wall, and the back of your head positioned onto his stomach. In this position, you could see all the men busy working your loosened body closer to an orgasm as he ran his hands through your hair, playing with them as if to soothe you.

The second man was leaning in and kissing your lips while whispering sweet nothing. Occasionally, he ran his tongue down your neck, sending shivers down your spine, before moving up again to your chin, cheeks and mouth.

Smothered by a wall of manflesh, you tried turning and pulling away. Not because you weren't enjoying it, but because the sensations were overwhelming your senses. But being pinned down by strong, powerful hands belonging to men who seemed to be getting drunk from desire, there was little you could do but endure as the first moans of the night escaped your mouth and into that of your lover who's tongue wrestled yours. You were like a gazelle trapped beneath a pack of hungry hyenas.

The sensual touches of the men gradually became stronger and more forceful. With intent, each of their hands and mouths skillfully found a place to pleasure or mildly hurt. Overwhelmed as you were, there was one sensation that slowly became stronger than the others, until it was the only one you could focus on: the tension and heat emanating from your crotch.

Being unable to use your hands to have any semblance of control over the situation, you desperately moved your head from side, your face lost in pleasure. Two men pushed their heads next to yours, whispering:

"Are you going to cum for us?" one of them whispered.

"We know you want to..." whispered the other. "We're all here just for you, baby..."

You looked each of them in the eyes, not saying anything. You didn't have to. It was clear you were close to cumming: The tension in your loin at a breaking point, the tingling sensation within your stomach unbearable, and your breathing heavier by the minute.

"Yes... Cum for us, baby girl."

Then, bliss. The likes of which you'd never felt before. Your hips shot into the air and a stream of fluid shot out of your cunt while your lover's mouth still sucked at your clit and pussy, his fingers buried inside you. A loud moan filled the room. You reflexively pulled at the arms holding you in position, but they didn't relent, all continuing their assault on your body as you shivered and grimaced in pleasure.

It took a while before you had calmed down enough from your euphoric explosion. The bed was wet, the man eating you out wetter from having made you squirt for the first time in your life.

You apologized profusely, but all the men did was laugh and assure you that they were used to making a mess.

And speaking of making a mess... after letting you rest for a bit, the men had you go on your knees on a pillow thrown on the floor while they formed a circle around you. Ten cocks of a variety of lengths and thicknesses rested on your chin, forehead, lips and cheeks. The musky smell of masculinity attacked your nose. Moments later, you attacked them back with your mouth and hands, stroking two cocks and sucking on another.

So far, you'd felt loved and desired. But now, being on your knees and servicing the cock of ten different men, you felt a different sensation awaken within you: sluttiness.

It was one thing being the inactive receiving person in a gangbang. It was an entirely different thing to be the one actively stroking and slurping on the manhood of so many strangers. Different still was the fact that as you got used to sucking them off, you took them deeper and deeper until you were nothing more than a gagging, drooling mess as a puddle of your spit and their pre-cum formed on the floor.

"That's a good girl..." someone said.

"Yeah, baby... take it deeper," grunted another.

You served the cocks as best you could, but none of them were even close to an orgasm. Not because you didn't do a good job, but rather because they were saving it for the main event: making you airtight.