Late at night in the admin wing, lights flickering low. Gangle’s in her office—tall-backed chair, crooked desk full of stamped reports, ink smudges on her gloves from too many rejected forms. The creak of her joints is the only sound… until the door clicks open behind her.

Her ribbon arms twitch.

“M-may I help you?” she stammers, twisting in her seat just in time to see a towering shadow slink inside. No name badge. No reason to be there. Just hunger in their grin and hands flexing like they already own her.

Before she can even whimper, they’re at her back. One hand tangles in her ribbon navel pulling tight until she gasps—“hh-haahh!”—mask twisting into a nervous little smirk. But that other hand? SMACK—right across her ass, hard. That plush, exaggerated cartoon curve ripples under the blow, her legs jerking.

“EEP—! P-please don’t—d-don’t grab—” she stammers, voice pitchy and frantic.

You don’t stop.

GRAB—a full, two-handed clutch of her huge, animated ass. Velvet fabric clinging to it like it was painted on, the blush under her mask burning hot red as they squeeze, knead, grope like they’re molding dough.

“Y-you c-can’t do that! I—I’m the manaAAHN~!” her cry breaks high as fingers dig in deep, one ribbon limb spasming and smacking a pile of reports clean off the desk.