by bobwhite
Author's Notes: This is a little nasty, especially for me. Mega-thanks go to William Pratt and Born Blitzed. Without Born Blitzed, the first chapter would be more awkward; and without William Pratt, the ending would not have worked very well at all. Thanks, guys!
The building wasn’t the tallest in the business park by a long shot. But at seven floors, the elevator trip up to the top could take quite a while, especially between 7:00 and 8:00 a.m. when the dreary number-zombies marched solemnly to one of only three elevators serving the hundreds of drones working above the ground floor. Tim and Julie had missed the rush, though, and enjoyed a quick ride to the seventh floor where the Marketing Department was located. They’d arrived at nearly the same time around 6:30 that morning.
Both were up for the position of Marketing Supervisor, and they’d been showing up early and staying late for a couple of weeks. And that day, Friday, was the big day: one would end up with the promotion, one would not. Tim was the logical choice: he had more experience in the field than Julie, had been in the department longer, and had consistently high numbers and inventive ideas.
Julie had good ideas too, but her numbers were shaky sometimes and she didn’t have a lot of experience in marketing. On the plus side, she’d been a loyal associate of Quaver, Bohn & MacGuphin ever since she’d gotten her Masters degree in business, and she’d interned with the firm while a grad student. She knew the company inside and out. That plus her education made it seem that she far outshone her coworker... on paper, anyway.
To all appearances, they had been friendly but serious in competition for the partners’ approval. They joked around and had a good time ribbing on each other, making it a point to let everybody within earshot know that while they did want the job, they would respect and support any decision made by the partners. Ass-kissing makes strange bedfellows.
Tim, finishing his week’s work an hour before his day officially started, looked down at the floor to let his computer-fatigued eyes rest. And, rest they did—on the image of a tall, thin shadow that had been standing sentry for who knew how long. Attached to it were a pair of slender legs that hung below a business-length skirt. Standing at the opening to his cubicle, in her finest suit, was Julie.
Holding out her hand, the redhead offered Tim a bagel. Her smile was at the same time sterile and warm, artificial and yet delightful. Just like his would be if he were offering her yet another empty gesture of compatriotism.
“Thanks,” he said, forcing his tone to settle down to hide his nervousness. “I take it you’re finished too and you are racking your brain to find something extra to tackle?”
“Ha!” she laughed, using her signature safe-for-work monosyllabic chuckle. “Well, I can see it’s not an original idea, but it’s made us so rich that I don’t know why everybody doesn’t put in 70 hours a week, just for fun!”
Tim smiled genuinely at her little joke. He didn’t hate her, but he really deserved the job (as far as he was concerned, he deserved it more than she did) and would do almost anything he could to get it.
‘You could do it, you know. You could make them...’ one side of his consciousness reminded him, sending the tide in to cover the post.
The other side fought back and the tide lowered. ‘No. That’s not the way you do it. Mom said...’
Again the waters rose, frothing this time with fury. ‘Your mom is dead, and she didn’t practice what she preached—and her life was great! You know that for a fact; you saw her life flash in front of her eyes. She wasn’t afraid to take what she wanted every now and then. C’mon, just peek inside Chris’s head and see who he chose... just a look, no influence...’
The water was nearly to the top of the post now, but Tim put a hand on the angry moon and pushed it with as much strength as he could spare. It receded, taking the swell of temptation with it. Self-control stood tall and dry (on top) and within his mind said, ‘After all these years, visualization still works.’
“Tim? You OK?” Julie asked when Tim didn’t respond to her joke. He was always good for at least a pity giggle, but now he was apparently spacing out.
Tim shook his head and came back to reality. “Yeah, just nervous, you know. Good luck, Julie. May the best... person... win.”
He took the bagel and bit into it. ‘Shit, these are awful. I seriously think people only eat these flavorless, hard, heavy, U.S.D.A. Grade Q donuts because they know New Yorkers do and everybody knows New Yorkers are totally fucking cool ‘n shit,’ he sarcastically thought as he stood to shake Julie’s hand.
And when 8:30 rolled around, Tim’s and Julie’s boss, Chris, breezed in. He went straight to his office and, an hour and several visits with various Human Resources people later, dialed Tim’s extension.
“Tim, please come to my office. I have something to discuss with you.”
“Yes, I’ll be right there,” Tim answered. He hung up the phone and went to Julie’s desk, which was on the way to Chris’s office.
She was fiddling around, apparently cleaning up her work area but obviously trying to keep busy to avoid the appearance of uneasiness. “Julie, Tim’s called me in. I think I got it. Have you heard anything?”
Julie looked up and flashed her smile again—the one that was neither totally real nor completely fake. Her smile. “No, nothing. Congratulations, Tim,” she said. She stood and gave him a brief hug, ending it with a firm handshake. “Or should I call you ‘sir?’”
Tim’s smile erupted across his face and he said, “Never. Tim will do.” He turned and went toward Chris’s office but stopped and spun around, pointing a finger at Julie who was still standing. Sarcastically he added “Now get back to work!!” The laughter of many of the people who heard the mock command followed him as he made his way to Chris’s office. Even Julie laughed—but with a single “ha.” He felt so good, it was almost like he floated through the door on a cloud of relief and bliss.
When Tim came entered the office, Chris directed him to sit down and introduced the two Human Resources employees who flanked Chris at his desk. They were Sally and Daniel, two soulless apparitions of that most hated department whose jobs probably paid far more than was reasonable. They were the bearers of tidings that meant either advancement in the company or permission to pursue alternative avenues of employment. Daniel had some papers face-down on the desk, and Tim wondered exactly what everybody would say before the papers were turned over, revealing his new salary, benefits, parking space...
“Tim,” Chris started, “I’m afraid we have some bad news. I don’t like these kinds of meetings so I’ll get right to the point: there’s been an... allegation. I can’t go into details because of privacy and confidentiality, but you’ve been accused of sexual harassment.”
Tim’s heart fell seven heaven-layers down from where it had soared to the hard pavement of reality. Shakily, he said, “Is this some kind of joke?” Chris’s face didn’t change, nor did it show any emotion.
‘That’s what makes him a good boss, but what is this shit about?’ Tim’s mind frantically whirled.
Sally spoke next. “You are familiar with our company’s policy on sexual harassment?”
Numbly and only half-aware, Tim answered in the affirmative. The tides rose.
Daniel, the other HR person, turned over the papers on which he’d been resting his hand. Tim had heard how these meetings worked and he didn’t need to look to see that stack included termination papers, an exit interview, and COBRA papers.
Coming around from the fall, Tim asked, “Wait! You can’t do this without telling me what I’ve supposedly done!! Chris, you know me. I’ve worked here for fifteen years and I don’t have a single written disciplinary action form to my name. At least tell me when it was I supposedly do whatever it is.”
Chris looked at Sally and she answered. “I can’t get into the details of who you... uh, offended; but you made some unwanted physical contact with a female employee last Wednesday. All I can say is that you apparently put your hands on her shoulders, I got the complaint yesterday, documented it, researched it, did a full investigation, and determined that you’re in violation of—”
Tim interrupted her loudly. “But I wasn’t here all day Wednesday!! I was here, alone, for an hour before work and I left before anyone else was even on this floor—I had to give a presentation, for Christ’s sake! Chris can verify this, as can—”
Daniel spoke up next. “Tim, any touching can be considered unwanted if the person you touch feels it’s inappropriate for work. Personally, I never touch anyone at work. I only shake men’s hands, and I rarely do that. We guys get the short end of the stick as far as these accusations go, but the company...”
The high-water mark of his teenage years was plunged below the surface, but the cracked top of the wooden pole still poked above the waves. Barely. Daniel’s voice was a million miles away, but Tim managed to speak even before he was back from la-la land.
“Chris, they’re not listening! You know I wasn’t here with anybody at all!! The complaint is bogus, you know it, if they’d actually bothered to do any real investigation even they would know it!! Please, Chris, tell them—”
Chris sighed, silencing Tim. “Chris, I have my job because I’m willing to fight for my people when I think they’re treated unfairly or when they’re clearly wrongfully accused of breaking policy. I’m considered the Don Quixote of management by the other partners. But this is one windmill I just won’t fight. Sexual harassment is serious, and we have a zero tolerance...”
Tim didn’t hear the rest. He signed what he had to sign, being careful not to make a scene. He had just started wondering how he was going to explain this to his wife when the security officer came in with a box full of his personal items. “Please come with me, Mr. Wright,” he said curtly. And out the door they went.
Before he even got to the elevator, he was burning with rage. Each set of eyes on him was like a flaming arrow, making him burn even more as his flesh was pierced with their stares. They knew something had happened—company veterans don’t walk around carrying their personal affects in an box escorted by security unless they’re “no longer with the company.”
And then he saw Julie. She came up to him and made the worst mistake of several people’s lives.
“I heard.”
‘Heard what?’ temptation asked. Control slowly started to sink into the mud in the high tide.
Julie continued. “I think it’s bullshit. I can’t believe Chris wouldn’t fight this one; you were alone Wednesday...”
She continued to talk but a Tim’s mind began to flood with suspicion, rage, and anger. He ignored her while the tide rose higher, and higher...
As the first ripples of murky water topped the pole, his mind opened a little and he interrupted her, saying, “How did you know why they canned me?” And as he asked it, the answer poked through her skull and his mind instinctively grabbed it. His control hadn’t slipped in over a decade, and his mind was still as sharp as a tack... when it was allowed to be.
The sensation of opening, even by that small amount, was too much and the two-way shields he’d imposed on himself almost constantly since his Sophomore year in high school shattered into almost a thousand pieces. He knew they’d never return.
Being a good boy had gotten him nowhere. ‘No wonder mom used her influence till her dying day.’
Everybody on the seventh floor, and in a few moments the entire building, froze for about ten seconds. Not that they noticed, of course. Things came back to normal before anyone had a chance to know that anything was wrong.
And Tim knew. A plan, a blowjob, a promise, a promotion—he knew he’d been sold out. He even knew everybody who was in on the little joke. Tim looked at Julie with icy hatred and said, “You did this, didn’t you?” Of course, he knew the answer—but he wanted to see if she’d compound her betrayal by actually lying about it.
Julie’s artificially polite demeanor disappeared. She took a few steps back and stopped, finally speaking. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but good luck....”
‘A lie,’ Tim thought. ‘This is going to be... entertaining.’
“... You’re not too old to start over, and I’ll even give you the most glowing letter of recommendation any prospective HR department could hope to read. I’ll do that right away...” she said, finally turning around to walk away from him. “... right after I move in to my new office,” she finished as she strode out of earshot.
I walked away from him, forcing any shred of sympathy out of my mind. I needed this job, and I’d done things I promised I’d never do—ever—to secure my new position. If Tim couldn’t understand that, then he shouldn’t have been considered for promotion anyway. ‘Yes, I did,’ I thought. ‘You were going to get the job, and I didn’t get this far up in this company as fast as I did by playing by the rules, pops. You may have the experience but I have the grades. You may have seniority,’ my mind snarled, ‘but I have the balls. This only proves that I’m better for the job. If I could have guaranteed myself the job without sacrificing you, I would have but dammit, I deserve this job.’
It’s dog eat dog in corporate America, and... celebration was in order. Celebration was definately in order. Funny how I hadn’t thought of it before.
‘I got the job!!’ my mind yelled, happy beyond belief. I figured I’d have a nice (using the term loosely) night on the town, and so I invited some of the girls from the office. For the last time, I sat at my old cubicle and opened my email. Selecting a dozen or so of my friends (about four of which I knew would actually show up), I told them to meet me at a little nightclub I know of that’s not too far a drive—but far enough from away to allow us girls to get a little loose without running into other people from the office.
For some reason, I even invited Ellen, the office gossip. Yeah, she might talk about the wild night—but with my other friends to dispute her, nobody would believe her. Hell, hardly anyone ever believes her anyway! I looked over at her—I could see her from my soon-to-be-old desk. A little on the frumpy side but not ugly, this was the kind of woman who needed a night out. I typed the email so fast I didn’t have time to edit it.
HEY ALL I GOT THE JOB!!
PARTY AT EINE KLEINE NACHTKLUB TONIGHT!!1
CUM WITH ME!
BRING YOUR DRINKING MONEY TO HTE PARTY!!!
I hit “Send,” not even caring that it was in all caps and featured some otherwise embarrassing errors.
Thankfully, Ellen drove—I was planning on getting pretty damn drunk, and we all knew Ellen didn’t drink. All five of us barely fit in her car, but we got there safe, sound, and really thirsty. As soon as we walked in, the heat of the sweaty, dancing bodies and the smell of liquor and incense almost overwhelmed us. The club was fairly full—just right, I realized immediately, for the kind of party I deserved.
‘I’m going to get what I deserve, all right!’ I thought. I had no idea where the idea came from, or why it felt so sickening... but it floated away as quickly as it came, so I dismissed it.
Apparently, this was going to be a wild night at the club—the small stage had a wet T-shirt contest forming and I even saw the emcee (some guy in a tuxedo with a cape!) talking up some cute chick at a table, probably trying to get her to join the contest. Her boyfriend seemed to be OK with the idea.
‘Wet T-shirt contest? Big crowd? Drinks? My new salary being retroactive? And a dude in a tux at a club? Fuck, this night is going to be special!’ I thought.
“Who wants a shot of Jäger?” I asked my friends when I arrived at the bar. All except Ellen nodded and huddled around me. Calling the barkeep over, I said, “Four shots of Jägermeister and one... ginger ale?”
Ellen nodded, and our drinks were served. Four shot glasses slammed down a moment later, and maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t been a big drinker since hell week down at SIU, but I immediately felt it go to my head. My friends and I all ordered another shot, and once those were down, I splurged once again.
“Long Island Iced Teas for everybody!” I yelled to my friends, paying with my credit card. My companions took their drinks and headed for the dance floor, but I found myself unable to drink any of mine. I wanted to, I think, but I couldn’t. It didn’t matter, though. Even though Mr. Tux and the woman he had been talking to were missing in action, the girls on stage were having pitchers of water poured over their white shirts by some other guy and bouncing their suddenly visible assets to the beat of the powerful bass beat.
I must have been drunk from that one shot of Jäger. Setting my drink down on the bar, I walked toward the stage. On the way, I bumped into somebody—but when I looked around, I didn’t see anyone. I brushed it off as a figment of my intoxicated imagination and carefully made my way through the people crowding the stage to where the action was.
When I got near the stage, I felt everybody’s hands pushing me to the steps that let up to the stage, and once there, I felt oddly but powerfully compelled to join the contest. I’m not big on top, but I did happen to be wearing a thin, white long-sleeve T-shirt that had nothing on it but a Cubs logo—and that only partially covered my left tit. Needless to say, I was promptly doused.
The other girls had bigger boobs than I did, but I had a four-girl cheering section. When water met my shirt, I did get some applause—but it quickly turned to laughter. I had worn a bra! The others on stage were even laughing it up!!
‘Fuck, they came here just to show some tits without taking their shirts off, and they’re laughing at me?’ I thought. I’d never been any kind of exhibitionist, but the laughter just bothered me all of the sudden. So, I did the only thing I could think of: I lifted my shirt, took off my bra, and shook my bare breasts at the crowd before lowering my wet shirt and pulling it tight against my chest. And that’s when the crowd went wild. For me.
‘I deserve this,’ I thought, appreciating the cheers.
Then, the top-heavy ladies started lifting their shirts, and the applause grew. Now, it may have been the alcohol, but I was not about to be outdone on my big night out. I removed my shirt completely, twirled it above my head a few times, and flung it into the crowd. Two of the six others hopped into the crowd—I was too much for them.
But the other four stayed up, and one even started to dance to the low music that the DJ had been playing throughout the contest. After grinding here and there and doing a nice little tease on the guys in the front row, she turned her back to them and unbuttoned her jeans. Hooking her thumbs inside the garment, she bent over at the waist and slowly peeled them off her perfect ass. She’d worn some skimpy bikini panties. Powder blue, too. And when she stepped out of her pants and turned around, there was a cartoon kitty-cat on the front.
While that girl seductively took her shirt off, two other girls left the stage—one even slapped the barely-covered ass of the one who was outstripping me. Then, the girl who had been standing between the now-mostly naked girl and myself did a similar dance and took off her skirt—and she was wearing a black thong. Still facing away from the crowd, she slapped her ass a few times, got down on all fours, and slapped it again a few times—grinding her nearly-visible pussy toward the crowd. After a minute or so of this, she got up and walked to the other girl, who then helped her out of her shirt.
I flashed my fake smile, but inside I was terrified. When I go out in low-rider jeans, I don’t wear panties. I don’t like my underwear sticking up above pants, so I avoid the issue by going commando. I was about to leave the spotlight myself (to the chagrin of the now-chanting crowd) when an thought wormed its way into my mind.
‘What the fuck? This is my night. No way are these bitches upstaging me!’
Without turning around, I slowly unzipped my jeans, opening them slightly as I did so. When the crowd saw its first glimpse of my well trimmed, naturally red bush, I heard some gasps. They gave way to cheers and whistles when I finally got my britches completely off. Something in my head told me to tease them a little more, so I licked a finger and briefly toyed with my clit—right in front of them! And that’s when things started to get weird.
Well, actually, that’s not true. It’s just that I was suddenly aware that I was naked, in front of a crowd, in a bar that—well, let’s just say it’s not zoned for nudity. Obviously, I already knew these facts, but it just dawned on me how wrong the whole situation was. This wasn’t like me at all, and if I got arrested, I might lose my job!
The other girls were gone; it was just me—and I could not stop fingering myself! The crowd egged me on of course, but I wanted to stop. I tried to stop. And the harder I tried, the more my fingers worked their magic on my cunt.
I came, standing up, in front of four friends—and over a hundred strangers. The cum leaked down my right thigh. I realized that my control over my molesting hands was somehow lost, so I willed my legs to carry me away. That didn’t work, either.
Instead, I knelt and and then laid down on my back, spreading my legs wide to an appreciative audience. One, two, and then three fingers entered my slit against my will, and my whole body blushed in embarrassment. What’s worse was my hands were having an incredible effect on me. I quickly worked up to another orgasm. Then another. And another. Each one was better than the last, and I was losing my resolve to stop fucking myself. It just felt so good to do it in front of so many strangers.
Every time I tried to scream for help, I would scream in ecstasy instead. Anyone listening would have thought they were screams of passion. But I knew I was in real trouble when I rolled over and raised my ass off the stage.
After a few moments of just exposing myself to them, I found one of my hands reaching over me and the other underneath me. The one under me found my dripping sex and started in with three fingers, pushing in and out with amazing speed while the hand above me snaked down to my ass.
When the fourth finger entered my pussy, a finger from above managed to wrangle a little pussy juice off of my cum-soaked hand and rubbed my asshole. As I brutally fucked my slit with the four fingers of my right hand, I felt my left hand’s well-lubed middle finger work its way inside my tightest of holes.
And I came instantly, all over my cramping right hand. But the climax was so powerful I forgot that I was in front of a crowd for the first time in too many minutes to count. Again I plunged my finger into my ass, this time deeper. And again I screamed incoherently as the rapture that started at my crotch exploded throughout my body.
I don’t know how long I fucked myself from both ends before the cops showed up. I do know that I’d worked pretty much my whole right hand into my pussy, and three fingers of my left into my rosebud. I was so spaced-out from playing with my deliriously responsive holes that they thought I was drunk and put me in a holding cell. I called Ellen’s cell phone and asked her to bail me out, hoping there was something I could do to keep my arrest as quiet as possible.
A guard escorted Ellen to my holding cell and unlocked it. She was carrying all the personal items I’d left at the club, and she dropped them at my feet. Then, she and the guard departed, leaving me sitting on the bench in the cell all alone. But I wasn’t alone for long.
My mind was starting to go into full damage-control mode when, unexpectedly, I heard Tim’s familiar voice. He surprised me—I visibly flinched when he spoke.
“Hey baby,” he said, too smugly for my comfort. “Get yourself in a bit of trouble?”
I was about to shout something at him about saying something so stupid—there was a possibility he didn’t know what I’d been arrested for, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing what I’d done in a moment of strange weakness, but I was clearly in trouble. Something held my tongue though, because I found myself unable to speak.
Calming down a little, I tried again—this time, I’d try some honey. The vinegar would come later. “Listen, just bail me out and I’ll pay you back tonight. I’ll pay triple if you don’t say a... holy shit, what are you doing??” I asked. He’d unzipped his pants and stepped inside the cell. His cock poked through the fly hole in his jeans and hung semi-erect in front of my face.
“Looks like we’re all alone, Julie. I gotta admit, you played me good today at work. Really fucked me over, and you did it well. My wife would have been angry with me. But guess what I did?” he asked.
I stood and took off all of my clothes, silently yelling at my hands to stop. After licking a couple of fingers, I started playing with myself again. Suddenly able to speak, I said, “Would have been angry? Mmmmm... what... ooooooh, what did you do?” My fingers were too talented to allow me to carry on an intelligent conversation, but I needed to keep Tim talking so I could “convince” him to keep quiet. It wouldn’t be easy.
As he answered, I turned around and grabbed the bench I’d been sitting on—presenting my glistening cunt to this man who seemed to know something I didn’t. I found myself looking at him through my legs; I’d taken a wide stance when I bent over, and clearly I was about to get laid—whether I wanted to or not.
And at that moment, I was so horny for (yet afraid of) Tim that I couldn’t even decide if I wanted it or not. As I’d soon find out, Tim was more than happy to make that decision for me.
“Well,” he said, getting his pants off and showing me his hard-on, “let me demonstrate my... special ability.”
I blurted out, “Oh please fuck me Tim! Fuck my tight cunt and finger my asshole!” before I could stop myself. Then I added, “Hi, this is Tim speaking through the mouth of the whore-iest of the whores in Whoreville! My name is Julie and I suck guys off and tell lies to get jobs!”
That’s when a shred of realization started to glow in my tattered—and apparently used—mind. I was about to verbalize what I’d just been allowed to figure out when I felt his manhood sink into my depths, only to pull almost all the way out and slam home again. Each time, I felt a burst of pleasure so intense I screamed in near-orgasm. And every fourth or fifth thrust, I did cum. After two or three shuddering climaxes, he spoke again.
“Yeah,” he said casually as if he weren’t literally fucking my brains out, “I let the beast loose. My mom told me to never use my powers or I’d bring myself more trouble than I would want to deal with. But you know what? I found out later, after my dad died, that she was not, shall we say, opposed to hypocrisy.”
His thumb worked itself into into my asshole, and every muscle in my body clenched in response as I came again.
“So,” he continued, “my wife and I came to an understanding. She’ll never be angry at me for getting fired for... sex... u... al... ha... rass... ment.” He pounded me hard on each syllable, making me cum with each one. After the last one, I found myself getting onto my knees in front of him, watching him jack off. An unspoken command had my mouth wrapping around the tip of his cock so I could swallow every drop of cum he pumped into me.
“In fact,” I found myself saying after I swallowed his load, “Vanessa even said I can fuck whoever I want, as long as I still fuck her.” I covered my mouth, angry and afraid that he could control me so... utterly. Not even my own mouth was under my control! He was using my body to masturbate, and my mouth to speak, and I was helpless to resist.
He looked at me and said, “Now isn’t that sweet? She’s granting me every man’s dream: an open marriage. And I owe it all to you. You pushed me over the edge, and let me tell ya, it’s been a hell of a ride! But we’re not done yet, you and I. One arrest for indecent exposure in a city over an hour away from the office? Hardly enough for what you deserve. Come with me.”
Of course, I followed him. It’s not like I had a choice in the matter.
The next hour or so was pretty much a blur. I remember driving my car with him in the passenger seat; he had apparently found a way to get keys for my car—and that meant that he probably had access to my house, my safe deposit box... it was terrifying, so I pushed those thoughts away. And I wasn’t sure, but I could have sworn I was being followed by Ellen’s car.
At some point, we stopped at a liquor store. I drove some more, and when we were far away from the city—on some county highway or something—I parked my car in the middle of the road, and started drinking something that tasted like licorice-flavored cough syrup. I looked down: Jägermeister. I had never liked this shit, and not only did I buy enough shots of it to make sure every witness at the bar knew that I was drinking it, but I was now drinking a chilled bottle of it in my car. I could see where this was going.
Tim got out and walked around to my window, which was rolled down. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This road is straight for over a mile in both directions, and the ground is pretty much flat. This is a straightaway I use to get to work, and hardly anyone ever drives it. Your lights are on, so don’t worry about somebody hitting you. You just sit here and drink, dearie.”
I complied. The Jägermeister went down almost too easily, but I paced myself. He told me to drink, not commit suicide by alcohol poisoning. Looking back, I realize that I had completely abandoned the notion of resistance. I saw him start walking away from the car, and he had his cell phone in his hand when he got into Ellen’s car.
They promptly left me there, alone on a deserted highway, quickly approaching a drunken stupor.
An hour later, I saw some lights approaching in the rear view mirror. Quickly, I started the car, put my foot on the break, and put the transmission in Drive... and then I waited. When the cherries lit up on the car, I knew what Tim had done. The officer used his loudspeaker to tell me to kill the engine, which I did. I was too busy finishing the bottle of Jäger to even put on my seatbelt.
Through blurry eyes, I saw the brown shirt of the Illinois Highway Patrol. All I could say was, “Please, osifer, I’m trying to get gome... hit gome... home... hit home...”
He asked me something and shone his flashlight in my face. I leaned out the window, bumping my head on his light, and responded with something like, “I haven’t had a drink to drop. Sigh swear!” I still don’t remember what I said very well, but I do remember finding it hard to be coherent. Looking down, I saw the man’s nice pants and shiny shoes... and vomited on them.
It made all the papers. The partners at the firm were not happy, but they couldn’t fire me—not with Chris backing me up. Sure, I had to fuck him whenever he asked, but it was better than trying to find a new job. The partners did, however, move me to a new position. Seeing as how my recent and public actions would not shine well on a company who had a convicted drunk driver (I pled guilty in court, thanks to Tim) as a marketing manager, they chose to allow me to stay on as clerical help. It was a tremendous pay cut and I had to move to a studio apartment, but Tim won’t let me quit. It’s been like this for months.
And when I told him I didn’t like the fact that I had to blow just about every male manager in the company, he said he’d take mercy on me and went back to the office with me to make sure I was assigned to somebody whose dick I wouldn’t have to suck.
I was reassigned to work for Olivia Hanning, the new marketing supervisor—on the seventh floor. It amuses my former coworkers to no end that I openly brag about how well I can make her coffee just the way she likes it—it takes five scoops to brew just right and she likes it with two creams and a packet of sweetener on the side. All in all, though, it’s not that bad. Ms. Hanning is about 45 years old and has very short hair that’s graying around the sides just a bit. She can be one harsh bitch most of the time, but she’s much better to work for than my male bosses were for one main reason: no blowjobs!
And, she shaves her pussy. I find the gesture almost polite. The men I’ve had to service never even trimmed their pubes. Not having to pick curly hairs out of my mouth every morning (and after lunch) is the best thing that’s happened to me since this all began.
Maybe someday I can convince Tim to at least make me enjoy what I’ve become.
© 2005, bobwhite, emc.bobwhite@gmail.com. All rights reserved.