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lovelylilangel · 11 months ago

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You need this job desperately. This is the first interview you've had in weeks and there's no telling how long it'll be before you find another one. Bills are piling up, and it won't be long now before you start losing things: internet first probably, then electricity, then your apartment, then food. You know you can do the job—it's a bookkeeping position, the exact kind of number juggling you've always been good at—but you don't have much professional experience to rely on. You need to impress this interviewer.

The interviewer is a man in his 50s, neatly groomed and smartly dressed. He makes you think of the character of a US president in a b-tier action movie: handsome, dignified, serious. He glances up from your resume to look you up and down, assessing. "It says here you're proficient with QuickBooks? How'd you pick that up?"

"I took a course at the library," you say. "Aced my final exam." Not that the course gave letter grades, really, but the instructor did say you had a knack.

The interviewer raises his eyebrows knowingly. "This class; I suppose it was taught by a man?"

"It was, yeah," you say, though you're not sure what that has to do with anything.

The interviewer just smiles a little and nods like you're confirming the obvious.

He scans your resume a bit longer before giving an amused little snort and pushing it aside. "Listen, sweetheart, I get it." He's taken on a fatherly tone, sympathetic and understanding. "I'm sure you're very hardworking, you'll do your best, but this position is important. I can't have our data getting corrupted because you got confused and divided when you should have multiplied."

Your face is going hot. Anger and embarrassment fight for dominance in your head. You point to your discarded resume and mumble something about the library course, but he just chuckles.

"A beautiful girl like you? Of course any man's going to pass you, just for a chance to get in your pants." He raises a placating hand as you protest. "I'm not doubting your virtue, no doubt you tried hard and gave it your all, but you really can't expect that instructor to give you a fair assessment."

Anger is winning out, but it's manifesting in the worst possible way for getting a man to take you seriously: tears. They're welling up against your will, streaming down your face in quantities too great to discreetly wipe away.

His expression shifts from amusement to concern. "Oh, darling, I'm sorry. I can tell you had your heart set on this, but it just isn't the right fit for you." His brow furrows, and then his expression brightens, like he's had an idea. "Hold on...I may have just thought of a way to make this right! We have another job opening that might be better suited to you. Would you be interested?"

You do your best to quell the tears. No doubt it'll be something you're overqualified for, but you're not in a position to refuse work. You nod you head.

"Well, the thing is, we ask a lot of our employees. The work we do isn't easy, and it can take a lot of long hours and late nights. No surprise, a lot of the boys in the office start to get pent up, need to let off steam. That's where you'd come in."

You don't like where this conversation is going. Hoping he isn't saying what you think he's saying, you ask, "what exactly would I be doing?"

The interviewer leans forward, hands clasped on his desk. "Oh, it's easy! You just wait in our break room until someone needs to use you. You can't be asked to leave the break room, and they can't break your skin, but otherwise you just do whatever anyone asks of you."

You stand up, anger hardening into cold hate. That condescending smile makes your skin crawl, your blood boil. "So that's what this is then? No one wants to touch your shriveled up little dick, so you have to pay someone for it?"

He looks hurt. "Why, my dear, there's no need for personal insults. I believe I recognize a latent natural talent in you! That's something to be proud of!"

You spit on his floor. "Go fuck yourself. I'll find somewhere else to work."

You're halfway out the door when he says, conversationally, "no you won't."

You turn back to him. "What do you mean?"

He gives you another infuriating smile. "You won't find anywhere else to work. I can make sure of that. Our company is very influential in this area. If you walk out of here, I'll make sure no one wants to hire you. You won't be able to find a job cleaning toilets."

Your head spins. You're trapped. He can't do that. Can he? What if he can? If you can't find work, you'll be homeless. You'll starve. Is your pride worth that much?

You sit back down, grudgingly. "What's the salary?" He tells you a number that is significantly lower than that of the job you came here for, but after some quick mental arithmetic you think it should be enough to get by on, maybe even start putting away some savings if you're frugal. You give a defeated sigh. "I'll do it."

He laughs. "Hold your horses! I appreciate your enthusiasm but I'm not quite done with the interview. I have one more thing I need to check. Why don't you come over here?"

You sigh and stand up, sitting as directed on the desk in front of him. He's professional in the way he touches you: quick, appraising, not lingering unduly. He runs his hands up and down your bare legs, pushing up your skirt to reach your thighs. He unbuttons the top of your blouse and pulls your bra down to grope your breasts and pinch your nipples.

There's no way the interviewer can know this about you, but you love having your nipples played with, and on a purely physiological level the way he's touching you is beginning to get you aroused. Not that the whole situation doesn't disgust you, embarrass you, make you more than a little nervous...but when he pulls your panties aside and slides a couple of fingers inside you, he doesn't have to worry about lubrication.

He beams. "Look at that, a natural, like I said!" He moves his fingers around, feeling you out, pressing against your inner walls. You hate him, hate yourself for letting him do this to you, hate the world for putting you in this position. And you hate your stupid cunt for the sick, awful pleasure that's beginning to build there.

He slaps you hard across the tit, leaving behind a hot, stinging glow on your skin, and you feel something that isn't exactly a moan, but then again isn't entirely not a moan, escape your lips. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, and your head lolls back on your shoulders. You're dripping on his desk now. Pathetic.

He withdraws his fingers and wipes them neatly on your skirt. "I've seen what I need to see. You've got the job, my dear. How soon can you start?"

You come in on Monday for your first day on the job. Your official title is "Office Slut," which you're not thrilled about, but you don't suppose some euphemistic title like "on-site stress relief therapist" would really change anything. You're expected, as laid out in your employee handbook, to leave your clothes and other personal effects in the cardboard box marked SLUT. Your domain is the slut corner, a corner of the breakroom most prominently featuring a sturdy table with some stained padding and a handful of velcro straps affixed to it with heavy duty staples. There's also a chair there for you, and in a thoughtful touch, a short bookshelf of porn magazines and erotic literature. You're not allowed to have your phone out, or bring any books or activities of your own, so making your way down the shelf helps pass the time.

At around 10 in the morning, a couple of men come into the breakroom, chatting about the upcoming quarterly report. One of them notices you and stops mid-sentence to say, "oh, hey, are you the new slut?"

It's sort of a silly question, as you're wearing no clothes and sitting in the slut chair, but you nod. The handbook recommends trying to keep talking to a minimum: "Remember," says the busty clip-art mascot, Holly Whore, "Nobody likes a mouthy slut!"

The man waves you over. "Come on, lets try you out."

You approach them, but the reality of the situation is catching up to you, and you're suddenly very self conscious. You've never felt this exposed before, this vulnerable. You cross your arms over your breasts, trying to cling to some scrap of modesty, as the men start to feel you up. Hands are running down your back, pulling your hair, prying your arms away and fondling your nipples, groping your ass, running over your labia...

"Stop!" You push them away, and they each take a step back. "I'm sorry, I don't think I can do this."

They look at you, and then at each other, and then they start laughing. One of them says, "you take her arms?" and then before you realize what's happening they're grabbing you, lifting you off the ground. One of them has you under the armpits, his hands firmly grasping your tits. The other has your legs pinned together under his arm. You flail, try to fight, but they're both larger than you and you don't have much leverage with your feet off the ground. The put you on the slut table and pin you down while they strap you in: each ankle is secured to one of the table legs, and one of your arms is strapped to the end of the table, above your head.

When he enters your pussy, you cry out in surprise and pain. You're already wet, luckily—you spent the morning reading a stained paperback from the shelf, which turned out to be surprisingly hot—but he's too big for you, and the way he's stretching you feels like you're about to split down the middle. You try instinctively to pull away, but the straps are secure. There's no getting out of this.

You start to cry. This pain, this violation, this humiliation, it isn't just happening now. It's happening all day. It's happening all day every weekday for the foreseeable future. If you don't let them rape you as often and as violently as they like, you'll starve to death. They might as well have a knife to your throat.

Something inside you hardens. It's only rape if it's against your will. You think. So will it. This is your job. Do your job.

The other man is standing next to you, jerking off as he watches you struggle against his coworker's cock. With your free hand you reach out and take over the work, trying to match his pace as you stroke up and down his shaft. He moans and lets you pull him closer, get his cock up to your mouth. You begin sucking and licking his head as you continue to jerk him off; the angle makes it tough to actually take him down your throat, but he seems to be enjoying himself just fine,

As you get into it, the pounding in your pussy begins to take on a more pleasurable aspect. He's really able to fill you up, and every thrust sends a shock up your spine. It still hurts, but you're coming to enjoy the pain. You can't stop thinking about that interviewer slapping your tits, the way it felt. You spit out the cock, just long enough to say, "you can hurt me if you want," and then get back to sucking. The guy in your pussy likes that: you can feel him swell at your words. You're expecting him to slap you around a bit, but instead he uses both hands to pinch your nipples and pull. The stinging pain of the pinch, combined with the stretching sensation in your skin, amplifies the pleasure by orders of magnitude, causing you to close your eyes, buck your hips, and moan loudly into the cock in your mouth. He moans as you tighten around him, leaning over you and trying to control himself, let the fun go on a little longer.

Now that he's unlocked the secret to making you squeeze his cock, he isn't shy about it. He pinches you, slaps you, pulls on you, everything he can think of. The surprise, you discover together, is part of what does it for you, so he's continually experimenting with new ways to hurt you, never letting you get your guard up. The guy in your mouth is getting close, his cock twitching more erratically each time you tickle his head with your tongue. You're ready, kind of excited actually, to swallow his cum, but he pulls out at the last moment. "Want to cum on your face," he gasps. "Mark you." Without missing a beat you keep stroking. It doesn't take long: one, two, three strokes up and down his shaft and he's shooting hot ropes of cum across your face, chin, and extended tongue. Maybe it's coincidence, or maybe seeing you like that turns him on, or maybe it's because the feeling of cum on your face makes you clench up again, but within seconds the other guy is filling you with his seed, making you moan and rub your clit. The men laugh as you make yourself cum, writhing on the slut table, your dribbling pussy adding another stain to the decrepit padding.

"Being a slut clearly isn't just a job for you," one of them teases. You can feel yourself blushing, but you can hardly deny it: something came over you just now. Maybe you do have a natural talent.

You learn some important lessons in your first week. Most important is to hold off on cumming when you can manage it. You spend so much of your work day with a cock in one orifice or another that it simply isn't feasible to cum every time you're fucked. It feels good the first, second, third time, but by the end of the day your head feels spinny and your clit is sore. Better to space it out, let it build until you can't resist anymore, and then let it out in one ecstatic release.

You also learn that not everyone is the same. The office is full of different bodies, different cocks, different preferences, different perversions. What works on one guy won't always work on another, and the things they make you do are many and varied. One guy likes to cum in your hair: whether he's fucking your mouth or your pussy or your ass, or just jerking off over you, he always makes sure to finish on your hair. You always know when you see him coming that you're going to need an extra half hour in the shower that night. Another guy refuses to touch any part of you besides his cock in your ass. He makes you lay on your stomach, legs apart, arms by your head, and he keeps his hands behind his back the entire time. If you try to touch him at all—you once made the mistake of reaching a hand back to guide him in when he came out—he screams at you and beats you mercilessly with his belt. They aren't allowed to break your skin, but he's pushed up against the line a few times. He's your least favorite, and by the way you've seen him interact with other guys over the water cooler, you think he gives everyone around him the heebie-jeebies.

The strangest, and honestly one of the most pleasant, is Barry. He's one of the only guys whose name you know, because he introduced himself and shook your hand the first time he met you. Barry comes in every day at fifteen past noon. You could set your watch by him, if you were allowed to wear a watch; fifteen past the hour, on the dot, every day. He wants two things: to suck on your toes, and to cum in your mouth. He doesn't want you to suck him off. He doesn't want to fuck you. He wants to jerk off with your toes in his mouth, and when he's done he wants to paint your tongue white. For a while you tried the "Come Around" method (your own private terminology): You lay flat on the slut table, your legs raised so he can get to your feet. When he's almost ready, he runs around the table and you open wide. The problem with the Come Around is that Barry want to spend as long as possible sucking your toes. He doesn't want to waste any time he could be sucking your toes on running around the slut table, and he's not the best at judging when he's going to cum. More than a few times he's waited too long and started unloading before he gets to you, which means, by the rules laid out in the handbook, that you have to get down on your hands and knees and slurp his cum off the linoleum. ("A good slut keeps her workspace clean!" as Holly Whore would say.) You've had much more success since introducing the "Bend and Deliver" method: In this method, you lay facing him, your head hanging off the table, and he lifts your legs up toward him. With you folded in this manner, he can suck to his heart's content, and cum straight down your throat without ever taking your toes out of his mouth.

You found the toe thing a little weird at first, but Barry's grown on you. He's one of the only people in the office to make polite small talk when he's using you, taking a short break from sucking to ask you how your weekend was, or what you're having for lunch. (You once joked, "you're about to deliver my lunch, Barry," and he told you seriously that cum does not constitute a healthy meal.) It also kind of turns you on just how hard he gets for your feet. Not your fetish, but you like being there to fulfill his.

A little over a month into your tenure as office slut and it's the Friday before a long weekend, the end of the quarter. As three o'clock rolls around the breakroom is seeing more and more activity. Most of the actual work is done, and everyone's antsy to get home and start their weekend; you included. But you're all being paid to work until five, so five is when you will leave.

You're currently engaged in a game a few of the guys like to play, wherein one holds you down by the throat and keeps time on their phone, while the other tries to make you cum as quickly as possible. They track their high scores on a little whiteboard on the wall. The fastest so far has been 11.21 seconds, but it's not exactly a fair game; the time depends heavily on when you last came, how long you've been edging, and how horny you already were when they started. The current guy, for example, isn't getting very far with the light-speed back and forth of his fingers over your clit—a strategy the sometimes works quite well—because it's the end of the day and the end of the week and you're overstimulated beyond all comprehension. You can't focus on anything: not cumming, not the words anyone is saying, not the way the guy twists your nipples (also usually a surefire strategy). Finally, you arch your back and make a half-hearted attempt at a moan just to get the guy to stop. He doesn't bother writing the time on the board.

A man with curly hair and reading glasses gets to talking with the other guys standing around you, laughing and joking at the dazed look on your face. "Did you guys know," he says, "that the slut actually applied for my job first?"

There's a chorus of laughter, mixed with some "now way"s and a "you're fuckin' with us!"

"I'm not! Hand to god I'm not, Gene told me! Can you imagine that? A slut accountant?" The laughter bubbles up anew.

"How's she supposed to give finance reports with her tits out?" says someone.

"IT would hate her, always gettin' her keyboard covered in cum!" says someone else.

The accountant raises his hands. "Hey, c'mon guys, maybe the slut has a secret talent for numbers." He looks down at you. "Are you any good at numbers, slut?"

You nod distractedly. You feel like you should be angry, or at least annoyed, but that buzzing in the back of your brain is making it hard to feel anything very strongly.

"I have an idea," says the accountant. "Let's play a game. I'll ask you math questions. Every one you get wrong..." he looks around, and his eyes fall on an open box of sharpie markers (a fresh pack—people keep taking them). He snaps to get someone's attention. "Hey, bring those over here. Every question you get wrong, you get one of these in you." By way of demonstration he slides a sharpie into your pussy, butt-first. "For each one you get right I'll take one out. You win if we can't take any more out. You lose when we can't fit any more in. Got it?"

You nod.

"First up," says the accountant. "Fifteen times fifteen."

You think. This should be easy—you have the squares memorized up to thirty by thirty—but you can't seem to recall the exact number. You can feel it there, somewhere in your memory, but this buzzing seems to stand between you and it. "One ninety six," you say.

"Ooh, too bad!" says the accountant, doing a mock gameshow-host voice. "That's another marker for you. Next up, let's have you do...eighteen divided by six."

That's simple. Eight goes into sixteen twice. Is that what he asked? No, eighteen divided by six...what number goes into eighteen six times? It must be a whole number, right? Before you even know why you're saying it, you're blurting out, "six!" You wince. Six times six is obviously not eighteen. What's wrong with you?

"Not even close!" the accountant chortles. People are gathering around now, enjoying the show. "That's another sharpie for you, really digging yourself into a hole here, if you'll pardon the pun."

It goes on like this. With each wrong answer he adds a marker. With each new marker you feel your pussy stretching a little further. The further you stretch, the better you start to feel. At ten markers you're barely coherent, gingerly tapping your clit and moaning out answers without even thinking. At fifteen you have to hold a hand over them to keep them from falling out, and you're not even bothering to answer anymore, just letting them penalize you for not responding. It's stopped being a math game, really, and just become a game of how many sharpies can fit inside you.

The answer turns out to be seventeen. After the seventeenth sharpie they're all just barely inside you, and you're having to push quite determinedly to stop them squeezing each other out. After failing to place the eighteenth—the areas around the edges are all stretched almost to breaking, and it's impossible to squeeze one in the middle of the pack without you letting your hand go and releasing them all—the accountant finally gives up, and begins to applaud you. "Seventeen markers! Maybe not the smartest, but definitely the most elastic slut I've known!" the other men begin to clap too, and you can tell by their faces they aren't being mocking. They're genuinely impressed. Your cheeks glow with pride and arousal as you give your throbbing clit the last little bit of attention it needs. Markers explode out of you as you cum for the final time this week, exhaustion washing through you.

You spend the final hour of the day in a pleasant haze. A few more guys stop by to cum in and on you, but you barely notice. You are the slut. It feels good to take pride in your work.

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