Every now and then, D or F or K would ask me out for a drink, and would take me back to my place and fuck me, and I found myself wanting to go— eager to please them; even though they began to take and use me more and more crudely, with less and less consideration for my pleasure or self respect, I was helpless to resist, overwhelmed by their strength— flattered by their desire.
It became harder and harder to hide this— the fact that I responded with least restraint when they were crude and when they degraded me, even though I often cried softly afterwards, while they tidied themselves up and invariably left shortly after, with hardly a word.
I accepted it, and I never made any more than token complaints – often then only deliberately, somehow wanting to give them an excuse to be harsher still with me, expecting to be ignored, or forced.
Somehow I was driven to make it clear that they were forcing me, that they were always forcing me, and that they always got their way – for their pleasure, and also, hard to admit, but truthfully, for mine.
Somehow, in the office, it began to seem that there was no alternative to letting it be perfectly obvious to a visiting client that D had put his hand right up my skirt while I was bent forward, serving coffee. I would sometimes make a weak, giggly protest, only to find myself pushed, pulled or otherwise forced to co-operate, my breasts moving softly as I helplessly complied, giving the best view I could of my cleavage to the poor visitor, who was often more embarrassed than I was.
Then, after a few weeks, it seemed impossible to protest in any more than a token way when F told a client, in front of me, that I would be happy to suck his cock while F took a long conference call in the other room – ‘least I can do for you – it being so rude of me to interrupt our conversation like this’.
And so I found myself, alone with a stranger, dressed like a bimbo, blushing and trembling, wondering hopelessly whether there was a way out of this, knowing there wasn’t – not if I wanted to keep my job, and realising with sudden insight that I really wanted this job, that I couldn’t face losing the security it gave me, could no longer face the world on my own.
I was not going to be a star, I was going to be a sexy secretary for my three bosses, and that this was just the beginning. And I knew I was going to allow it to happen to me, and my knees went weak, solving the problem of what to do next, as I sank unsteadily, blushingly, down in front of the stranger, and felt, with trembling hands, for his zipper.
I wanted to die, but instead I found myself softly, submissively taking the unfamiliar, semi-stiff cock into my mouth, and giving the best blow-job I knew how, unable to find any will to resist when, after a while, he took my wrists in his hands, and held them fast in one, while with the other he forced my head forward, fucking my throat deeply.
And I felt myself moving for him, making myself as soft and receptive for his relentless cock, even as I began to panic that I would never breathe again.
And afterwards, I meekly cleaned him with my tongue, as he told me to, and smiled through my tears as he told me I was a ‘classy cocksucker’, and next time he was in town he’d see if D would ‘loan you out for a couple of nights’. It was a compliment, after all.
That afternoon, I had a mini nervous breakdown. I hid myself in the cleaner’s cupboard and sobbed for an hour or so. My makeup ran and I felt disgusting, dirty and humiliated. I had given myself to this firm and they were treating me like a whore.
I was a whore. I had become a whore. Those years when I had resisted, argued, gone just as far as was necessary, but no more, with directors, photographers, agents – all a waste of time – I should have just fucked the first one that asked, let him do me in the ass, whatever – then maybe I would have got a part, become more than just an office whore, which it seemed was now my fate.
After a while, I cried myself out, cleaned my face up in the washroom, and went home. I didn’t go back the next day, or the one after. Then it was the weekend. I was beginning to be a little confused. They hadn’t rung me – the only other time I didn’t go in – genuinely unwell, they called me at ten a.m. and bullied me into going in anyway.
Why hadn’t they called? Did they know? Were they letting me cool off? Didn’t they want me back? Had I pissed the client off so much that they wanted me gone?
Had they even noticed I wasn’t there?
Why did I care? I wasn’t going back there – no way!
But when they didn’t call on Monday, I began to get the jitters. I couldn’t help it; halfway through the morning, I suddenly knew I had to go in— had to make sure they still wanted me— had to have that job - that I would go crazy if they had simply washed their hands of me. All crazy thinking, I know - but that was my reality.
The real world had ceased to be a possibility for me- the thought of not being part of their world had become unimaginably frightening.
I prepared myself as carefully as I ever had, choosing my skimpiest, most obvious outfit, waxing, plucking, moisturising, perfuming; desperately trying to push down the feelings of panic that threatened to overwhelm me.
It was really hard to go back into the office; at some level, I think I knew what I was letting myself in for - that I was going to be taken further than I already had been - but I didn’t think about it at all— couldn’t let myself; it took all my energy to look and act smart, calm and sexy, and that is what I did.
There was another woman at my desk— an older woman, frumpily dressed, but very efficient looking. She looked up, ready to smile, but then became colder, looked at me as if I must have the wrong place, had made a mistake, and was someone to be got rid of as soon as possible.
“Can I help you?”
I blushed— why was I so nervous? This was my place of work— she must be a temp - I should just breeze in and explain. Instead, I stammered and mumbled, weakly;
“Um I .. I .. I work here. I .. I’ve been .. un .. unwell, but .. but I’m .. I’m back .. now.”
I broke off, as at that moment K came out of his office, clearly with something to hand to the temp. He saw me, raised his eyebrows, looked puzzled, then went on with his original plan. I had to wait, ignored, blushing, trembling now, while he gave instructions to her.
The sight of him made me weak at the knees. I wanted to kneel, beg forgiveness, take off my clothes, tell him anything he wanted to hear. I couldn’t stop thinking about his fat, stiff cock, forcing itself into my ass - the first time ever, for me, and it had hurt so much, been so shaming, but I had thanked him, afterwards, through the tears…
But in front of this stranger, all I could do was try to hold it together, and wait.
At last he looked up;
“Honeycakes, I’m surprised to see you here. You left the company. What do you want?”
It sounded as if he too wanted me to leave. His eyes seemed bored, uninterested. I almost cracked. It should be him who was nervous— I could have gone to see a lawyer and be bringing a case.
But it was me who was desperate, and him who genuinely seemed not to care, and so it went.
“I’m .. please .. I .. didn’t .. don’t want … Please. I .. I.. I want to come back!”
I put everything I could into staying as calm as possible, and looking as humble and pretty and sexy as possible - a look that I knew he liked from times I had acted up to get him angry so that I could beg his pardon and be made to do things to make amends.
But in front of the woman it all had to be controlled— I knew I mustn’t embarrass him, or make her suspect. Little did I know that nothing in this world would shock her.
A little half smile— I nearly died with relief— a tear came to my eye, and my chin trembled;
“Hmm— well I have no idea if that’s possible. Absence without reason is of course grounds for instant dismissal, so your employment here has been terminated as of Friday…”
His words dashed my spirit again. I bit my lip, making my eyes large, trembling. This was terrible— awful! How could he do this to me, when .. when I had let him fuck me so roughly, just as he liked it, given him the excuses he needed to smack me around?
A long pause, while he grinned at me, enjoying himself, enjoying the power, and the way I responded, the way I was willing to show him just how vulnerable, how desperate I was to please him. I dared not make a sound.
“Maybe D would be willing to come up with some new terms of employment— something a little clearer. Maybe. I don’t know, he’s out until later this afternoon. Perhaps I could call him later, I don’t know— lots to do— and you not being here got us backed up a little! Naughty girl, letting us down..”
Was there hope? I didn’t know— maybe he was just playing with me. But I clung on.
I didn’t want to leave— I felt if I left now, that would be it— they would never call, and that would be it - I would never have the nerve to try again— it was all I could do to speak;
“P ..p-please .. S-sir— C..can’t I s..stay?”
I had never called him ‘Sir’ before— but it seemed necessary now.
He stared at me, face cold again, and I made myself smile— a weak, desperate little smile. He walked out to the hallway, held the door;
“OK, bitch, come!” — as if he was talking to a dog, and i? I just followed, meek, obedient, helpless.
He led me to the coat room— about 6’x3’, but with a proper door.
“You can stand in here, if you wish, until we call you” — and he gestured me in.
I dared to glance quickly at his face. He was serious— he would shut me in the cupboard and leave me to wait. No! I couldn’t! And yet.. and yet..
I bowed my head and stepped inside, turned to stand facing the door, but didn’t even dare look up,; just stood there, meekly, arms folded, while he closed the door in my face, leaving me in darkness.
I couldn’t believe it. But it was real— he had shut me in a small, lightless cupboard with no handle on the inside of the door, and told me to wait— I was as good as locked in. If there was a fire, I could die here; if I had to pee, I would have to go in the corner.
I tried to calm myself. Why had I allowed this? Why?
I couldn’t let myself think— I couldn’t— that way lay madness, and so I forced myself to accept, to wait, to bit my lip when I felt panicky.
I had no way of knowing how long I had been in there— time did funny things - but I know that I began to feel as if it had been forever.
My legs were hurting from standing still in high heels— I didn’t dare sit, and could hardly move.
I had to restrain myself a few times from banging on the door and shouting. A few times I heard footsteps, and tensed, trying to prepare myself for .. for what?
I didn’t know. Another thing not to think about.
At last, a set of footsteps came to the the door and stopped. The door opened, and I held myself carefully, standing as sexily as possible in the cramped space, heart thumping horribly.
But it was her— the temp. I nearly died of shame, started violently, expected her to scream. But she completely ignored me, reaching in for her careful dark grey coat, and then shut the door in my face before I could think of anything to do.
I did lose it then, for a few seconds, until I brought myself back under control, blinking back the tears pinching myself hard. But it was twice as hard to wait now, knowing it was late, wondering if they might just leave me here all night.
Stop thinking, stop thinking…
I don’t know how much longer, but a good while later, the door opened, and it was D.
It was all I could do not to burst into tears— he must have seen what a state I was in, but he just laughed at me, jolly, cheerful.
“My, my, what a pretty thing to find in a cupboard!. No. no, we’re not ready for you— you’ll have to wait a little longer.”
And he hung his jacket up and closed the door again.
NB: Although this is called Pt.1, I won’t be extending this story. the only other part is a rather crude (and cruel) sketch of a finale, rather old.
This story is also posted on Literotica.
