WEDNESDAY
There was a line to get inside the door.
Security was being taken very seriously by a brunette with enormous jugs, a small silk tie nestled between them, wearing an oversized guard cap that was probably from a Halloween store. She had her tongue stuck out, apparently permanently, and was trying very hard to read security badges. As a result, the line had backed up and snaked throughout the lobby.
Not that it was unpleasant. The formerly barren room, with the depressingly stained carpet, had been well-stocked with big tureens of coffee and box after box of donuts. Opening the door let out a sugar haze into the cold air.
Myra looked around guiltily for a box of open cupcakes. It had been depressing, how much she had wanted one. All she had eaten all of yesterday had cream in it, somewhere. Or chocolate. Maybe there was a food pyramid somewhere that endorsed gorging on yummy yummy cupcakes. She had avoided the scale, but her boobs felt heavy and full in their cups, and her ass seemed to have taken one for the team. Her blazer button was tight.
Erin had avoided the line entirely and just stood waiting in the lobby. Unlike everyone else she wasn’t chatting around a mouthful of dough. She was, however, drinking from a cup of coffee the size of a pitcher.
“I think I gained ten pounds yesterday,” Myra said, sidling up to her. She looked down. There was a glazed doughnut in her hand. When had that happened?
“Marx probably said something about this,” Erin said. “Bread and circuses from the new ownership. The bread is just more sugar-y than he knew about.”
“Oof, I can’t take any more cupcakes,” Myra said. She surreptitiously hefted her boobs up. Her bra was cutting into her back. It was like they were cream-filled, all of a sudden. “Have you tried any?”
Erin pursed her lips. “A few,” she admitted.
“My underwear is a little tight,” Myra said. “I’m getting to be part cupcake, I know it.”
“Uh huh,” Erin said.
Myra waited for Erin to share something private. Well, it would happen, one of these days.
“Look, this is getting just a wee, tiny, little bit racist,” Cam said, from the front of the line. The security gal had been trying to sound out his last name for a good five minutes. “It’s Indian, it’s not my fault you can’t read.”
“Please, just a second, Mr… ummm…” the security guard started.
“Raveendranath!”
“That,” the girl said, smiling blankly. “Yeah. That.”
“Oh, you are dropping like a stone on the list,” Cam said, seething.
No one else seemed to take much notice. As much as Myra felt bad about snacking, her fellow coworkers had the absolute feedbag attached, mainlining sugary snacks. There had been a sudden movement among the girls towards pastel colors, matching up with the transition team in their midst.
“Listen, Erin, can you help me with something,” Myra said, eventually. “You’re good with the internet, right?”
“I am fucking incredible with the internet,” Erin said. She took a long, long drink of coffee. “Incredible.” she repeated.
“Okay, great. Look, these… girls. Can you see if you can find something out about them?”
“Like what? Their cup size? Ample. There you go. And I can tell you that redheads are not in.”
“No I mean..” Myra nearly let it go. Why worry about the internet footprint of ditzes? But it was weird, right? “Like, did they go to high school? It’s like they don’t exist. Outside of being here and existing. No emergency contacts, that’s what I mean. What if one of them had a stroke? Who would we call?”
“How would we even know if they lost blood flow to the brain?” Erin said.
Erin always stood out a little bit. She was asian in a whitebread town. There was no doubt she was from the area—she had a slight midwestern accent she couldn’t quite hide, and a butt that had absorbed too many barbeques and chain restaurants. But if there was a chance to take a step back and sneer, Erin was into it.
Peter walked in. The men were dressed in polos and the girls in light-colored outfits, so Peter was alone in a dark-colored suit with a bright red tie. Both Erin and Myra tracked him across the room. People got out of his way. Girls with their mouths full watched him and forgot to chew. Myra couldn’t quite say why. There was something… about him. A wind made out of tobacco smoke and mahogany that blew past as he walked.
He walked right past the security guard and went for the elevators. The guard didn’t even try to stop him.
“Hey!” Cam yelled, aggrieved. “There’s a line!”
Peter swiveled. Myra didn’t particularly know the salesman. But she, and everyone else in the room, knew that Cam was in over his head.
The man walked up to Cam, a bit too close. Then he ducked down just a bit, slowly, so that he was eye-level with the IT staffer.
“Is there a problem,” his eyes flicked down to the ID badge held tightly in Cam’s hands. “Mr. Raveendranath?”
“There’s a….” he flinched when Peter breathed in his face. “Line. A line.”
“Oh,” Peter said. The man turned to the security guard. “Can I go in, sweetheart?”
Erin snorted, out loud. Myra subconsciously licked her lips.
The guard smiled. “Of course, Mr. Brzezicki!” she gushed.
“Good,” he said, and patted her gently on the side, just beneath a straining pair of boobs.
That started a flood, men almost entirely, smiling and winking their way up the elevator, until it was just a crowd of confused girls, and Cam, and Paul. And Myra and Erin.
“If someone calls me sweetcheeks today, I will make their computer burn,” Erin said. She finished off her cup. “Okay, I’m going up there if I have to mash my face into her boobs to do it.”
“So long, sweetcheeks,” Myra called after her, and got a one-fingered salute backwards in response.
Myra eyed her work friend’s butt and was reassured to see that it was just a tiny bit wider then hers.
There had been redecorating in the night.
Someone had, in the space of some ten or eleven hours, removed all the desks, put in new desks, steam-cleaned the ancient carpets, put a fresh coat of paint on the walls, and added what looked like brand new chairs.
But what caught Myra’s eye were the posters. The horrible posters.
They were pastel yellow and blue, like a nursery, and emblazoned with cheerful sayings like “WORK IS 110%!” and “AGRARIPE!” They must’ve been custom-made.
“Oh my god,” Myra said. She turned slowly in the office. Even the lights had been changed out. The brightness practically radiated off every surface. She suddenly felt exposed, out of place in her usual very dark grey.
“How do you like it?” Kay chirped, from behind her desk.
“I don’t. I mean, it smells nicer.” A lot nicer. Like a violet perfume mist. The old office had smelled like ancient papers and cow fluids. “But… I mean… come on. This is like a lobby at Lisa Frank. Is there a mural of a unicorn anywhere?”
“Oh, I kind of like it,” Kay said. She shrugged. The secretary looked jarringly out of touch as well, in dark black, but her legs were bright white underneath the new glass tabletops. Myra pursed her lips at that. Kay followed her eyes.
“Yeah, that is a thing,” she said, and squeezed her legs shut for emphasis. “Gotta keep the legs crossed. I mean, at least when Todd is around.”
“When anyone is around, right Kay?” Myra said. She ruined her own gravitas by taking a huge bite from a pink cupcake. Kay had more strategically stacked the snack pile. And today there was a coffee jug.
“Oh, come on, Myra. It’s just underwear, right? I’m gonna get a cramp if I can’t flash someone from time to time!” The receptionist reached out and took a cupcake. “I mean… umpphhh… mmm nunmmm..”
There was an odd and unspoken pause, the two girls eating, eyes unfocused, a half-dozen cupcakes. Myra and Kay sucked them down, needy, refreshing their own bodies after a difficult night spent without them. Myra struggled to think about it, but it was suddenly challenging to do more then mechanically, quickly, guzzle freshly whipped pink buttercream in a torrent. She was vaguely aware of making unabashed eating noises.
Todd walked in to the office.
The girls snapped out of their reverie, both wiping guiltily mouths pink-rimmed. Kay belatedly recrossed her legs, which had drifted wide apart.
“Myra, Todd, I need to talk to you both for a second,” Lydia said, unseen, from behind a barely-cracked door.
The vibe on the sales floor was… strange. Erin didn’t spend a ton of time there, but the overnight office redecorating had managed to disrupt a healthy amount of network cables. She was spending a lot of time underneath tables and desks, hunting for loose ethernet cables.
And she was SURE that all the men were unabashedly, cheerfully, staring at her ass.
It got so bad that she made her way, rattled, to the bathroom, and spent a long time checking herself out in the mirror. Being somewhat east asian in a cow town meant getting some yellow fever as a matter of course. She dealt with it by wearing loose, baggy jeans and a scowl. But for whatever reason she had picked today to wear jeans that were, if not tight, at least somewhat flattering, especially when she had her butt way high up in the air porn-style.
She wasn’t the only one in the bathroom. There were all sorts of women, with vaguely worried expressions, picking at loose hairs and closely examining their pores. A lot of them had gone with thick red lipstick, for whatever reason. It made them look doll-like in the new glass surroundings.
Then they hustled back to their desks with hunted expressions, watched by the cheery girls on the bizarre motivational posters.
Erin took a deep breath, and set her face into the stony wall she was used to. There. Bored, disinterested, uninvolved. She looked like an east asian version of Daria. She tried to ignore the blonde adjusting her cleavage line in the mirror right next to her.
“You’re drinking a beer? Right now? It’s ten in the morning,” she asked her next client. He was a junior, junior sales rep named Michael. She had five years on him at least. He was dressed in a shiny grey suit and a poorly-tied tie.
“Want one?” he said, cheerfully. “They’re in the break room. New management policy.”
“What, is there a sign that says free beer?” Erin asked. She slowly shifted towards the desk. Michael sat with his legs wide, up against the wall, ready for a show of IT girl rear end. Erin slowly sank to her knees.
“Sort of. I mean, there’s beer girls walking around. Mandy. And the other one. Not Mandy. Hey, she’s sort of asian-y, do you know her?”
Erin hissed. Then started to root around with the cables. The beer smelled like a moose in heat. It was amazingly pungent. Erin yearned for her coffee cup, if only to snuff out the scent in a cloud of sweet Colombian.
“Do I know someone because, they look, and I am making air quotes underneath this desk, asian-y,” she said. It was hard to make her voice drip with proper venom, from underneath the desk. Especially with his eyes glued to her backside. Erin could feel them examine and score her. Her butt felt warm. Disturbingly warm.
“Never know,” Michael said. There was a long pause. “Need any help?”
Erin sighed. The worst of it was, she did need help. She had left a line in her bag, and couldn’t bear the thought of crawling out, getting it, and crawling back in. “Can you grab my yellow cord from the bag?” she said, eventually. She fought to keep from moving her ass, even as a cramp struck her. It’d be interpreted as wiggling, she knew it.
“Sure thing, babe,” Michael said. And just as she was digesting that, there was a hand suddenly on her ass.
She meeped, under the table, and banged her head.
His HAND was on her ASS! And it had dug in, fondling gently, as his other hand swung around with a length of cord.
“This it?” came Michael’s reedy voice. A cloud of beer wafted after him.
“REMOVE YOUR FOUL HAND,” Erin somehow didn’t say. The words caught in her throat. It was just inconceivable. This… practically-teenager, in his Dad’s suit, giving her an ass-pat like he was checking the stock. His hand was still there! She wiggled her ass, to hint that his boy mitts should move on—and he stuck on her!
“That’s… it,” she heard herself saying. “Thanks.”
“Thanks, what?” At last, at last, the hand went away. Erin could feel every finger, still caressing her rear.
“Huh?”
“Thanks, sir,” Michael prompted.
That, at least, gave Erin the anger she needed to back out of there, cheeks flushed bright red, and stalk out. Walking ramrod straight to keep any wiggle out of her treacherous butt. She tugged her shirt down as far as it would go.
But before she did, she made sure to properly plug in his computer.
Lydia was already sitting at her desk when Myra walked in, just ahead of Todd.
Despite seniority, her boss had also been provided with a big glass desk, and Myra got her first ever look at the other woman’s knees. She wore a sensible skirt, in dark navy, and perhaps a one-inch heel, and it was by far the sexiest, sluttiest thing Myra had ever seen her in. Myra could see kneecap. It was remarkable. And her blazer had just the hint of a body underneath it.
The associate was still uncomfortably physical, crumbs and sugar dictating her moves. What had happened back there? Some sort of… food brownout, grazing and masticating and practically drooling. She felt achingly aware of her body—especially with Todd’s big body in the chair next to her. The man had his sleeves pushed up, and it reminded her of cowboys doing hard physical labor, of factory men swinging hammers. Just from some forearms.
“They’re just forearms,” she told herself, sternly.
Myra took a very deep breath, and crossed her legs very tightly.
“I have a job for the two of you,” Lydia said. She seemed unperturbed by the remodeling, although her legs were tightly crossed underneath the desk.
“Stop staring at your bosses’ legs,” Myra scolded herself.
“What’s the job?” Todd asked. He folded his arms. They were ridged with dark black arm hairs. Myra’s eyes darted over to them, to his thick, callused hands. The idea of Todd as a man continued to unfold in her head. Her fantasies of him had always been extremely restrained. Like, Todd fixing her car, that level of PG smut. For the first time she found herself wondering about his—the word stuck in her head—penis.
“Termination,” Lydia said.
Myra pictured an extremely big penis.
“I thought we weren’t gonna fire anyone?” Myra said, laboring to make a contribution. What was wrong with her?
“Fire any old employees,” Lydia said. “This is one of the transition team members. I think her name is… is…”
She frowned, and looked through some papers on her desk. There were stacks and stacks of files there, all mysterious and anonymous. And that’s when Myra heard it.
The buzz.
She turned her head slightly, to triangulate. Yes, there it was, insistent and low. And emanating from Lydia. Specifically, just beneath Lydia’s desk.
Her eyes darted back to her employer’s face. The tells were tiny. Lydia was biting her lip, not the outside, but the inside. Her eyebrows were just a little furrowed, the muscles in her face a bit tight. And then the buzzing stopped, just like that, and Lydia visibly exhaled. And found what she wanted instantly.
“Clara,” she said, handing over a dossier. “Give her the standard termination package, and escort her out. You’ll find her giving out company… what’s the word? T-shirts and such? In accounting.”
The buzzing started again. Lydia did bite her lip, this time, and her knuckles clenched on the side of the dossier. Myra risked a look down, where Lydia’s legs were crossed so tightly the bright white skin was flushed and pink.
“Swag?” Todd prompted. Lydia stared at him, her eyes distant. There was a very long pause.
The buzzing stopped.
“Y-yes, swag,” Lydia said. She sat back in her chair, and wiped at her brow. Myra’s mouth hung open. Had this been going on for months? It made a weird sort of sense that her ultra-uptight boss would get off in some wacky way. Had she been jilling herself with vibrators all this time?
“And one thing, don’t let her talk to other staffers, and..” Lydia’s eyes bulged. Myra could only imagine the self-control going on. Her hips didn’t even move. Myra’s hips were starting to pulse, helpless, sympathetic to the little orgasm going on three feet away. “...and get her out to the car we’ll have waiting outside. Okay? Thanks. DismissED.”
The last was practically squeaked. Myra sank back in her chair. Her body felt thick, hot, saturated with carbohydrates and imagery. All of a sudden her coworkers were fuckable.
“And close the door behind you,” Lydia said.
Clara knew she was being a super-big bad girl.
She had been warned in no uncertain terms by Walter that the Transition Team was “not to touch the goodies.” No water no coffee no snacks and “especially. ESPECIALLY. No cupcakes.”
He had put on his big stern voice when he said it, and the girls in their neat and orderly line had quaked and fallen to their knees, automatically. It was a really scary voice and it triggered big yellow OBEY lights in the fluffy heads of everyone in line.
But Clara was just a bit different, still. She liked being a Bad Girl.
Sometimes she had very misty bursts of recollection. Herself, wearing a whole bunch of clothes, like a shitload of fuckin clothes, and looking at a ton of books and READING them for like, a whole bunch of times. DAYS probably. And she knew they were sort of real because why else would she have a non suck-fuck dream? Shucks, she even had thoughts of herself fucking skinny guys in glasses, two nerdy kids getting their rocks off with real trepidation and even honest-to-goodness CONDOMS.
Condoms!
And she knew the dreams were real, too, because they had let her keep the glasses and they were the SAME glasses. The same big black glasses, oversized, albeit with the lenses gone. So yeah, the girl in the mirror NOW had big beestung lips and wide-open eyes and enormous tits and hips but ah-ha, there was one thing still the same. That had belonged to the overdressed skinny rail girl that cared about birth control.
Plus it made her super-horny to be a rebel. Just achingly wet.
She entered the ladies’ room. It was stuffed full of waif-like girls with little boobs and maybe no ass at all. Some of them were trying, painting on lipstick or blush, full of a new and confusing urges, but basically they were sexless freaks.
Clara gave them all a big smile. They all looked appalled. Clara’s four-inch heels made a clicky-clack on the tile. She locked herself in a stall and sat down.
And pulled out a trio of pink cupcakes from a bag. Sinful. She sort of remembered sin. She remembered protest marches, homework, some sort of new internship, marathon masturbation sessions as her body plumped up and dumbed up… sort of.
She ate two cupcakes quickly. Even her special company bras weren’t fitting right, anymore. And her mild, constant wetness was more like a big gushy flood. Just for laughs Clara had tried to walk without swaying her ass. It didn’t work.
Her fingers reached between her legs. She plunged a finger up there, then two, then, hell, a whole fist, a sticky set of fingers. A big luscious moan escaped her lips.
Out in the bathroom, the girls quickly vacated, shooting each other reassured glances that they really were disgusted, and not at all turned on.
Mmm, Clara knew she had to stop. She was starting to—and there they went, her tits leaking white, creamy milk. This was unhealthy. It was bad enough being a sex-addled barbie. Now she was bimbofying a bimbo, her body a whip of hormones and chemicals finding new ways to make her fuckable. God, that made her hot. Somewhere in her was a 110-pound college grad, surrounded by acres of wet girl flesh, dripping milk onto the floor.
The door opened. It was some slender girl, in glasses just like hers, horrified and dismayed and with her nipples starting to perk up. A cloud of chemicals steamed into her.
“Are you—I heard—oh, god, what are you—”
Wouldn’t do to get caught. Clara brought her last remaining cupcake up into the girl’s face, let her breath in the frosting, and waited for the slim brunette to start eating. Then, when she did, eyes wide, the big and getting bigger bimbo gently lowered her onto a breast, and wait patiently for her to suck.
It felt so good when she did.
Peter was feeling pretty good. Pretty pretty good.
By his count he was getting his dick wet about… 8 to 10 times a day. Mouth or slit. It was rarely dry, in any case.
It was definitely getting bigger. Swollen and hard he measured it at about eight inches. And it looked good, looked manly. It had thick veins and a big bulbous head, and when he came, it was like a white fire. That morning he had plied his wife with coffee and baked goods and left her sprawled and disheveled on the bed, dripping with his cum. He felt good about that. She had been sending him naughty texts all day, too.
And then there was the sales call. It had been clockwork. Textbook. He had walked in with a great handshake and a winning smile and an addled burgeoning blowjob queen walking behind him. Sarah had been great, just great. She was all tits and ass and big happy confused smiles and had tittered cheerfully at his jokes. And the IT Director had spent their meeting staring, rapt, into her tits, while Sarah playfully teased a pencil between her lips. What a trooper she had been, taking a rapidfire sex slut transformation, with some pretty harsh IQ loss, for the team. He had gotten the Director’s stammering agreement to an extension on the license, winked at him, and said that Sarah would stay on-site to “take care of things.”
He wondered idly if Sarah was married. Well, that was HR’s problem.
The phone rang.
“Peter,” he said. His part of the sales office was open format, a bunch of desks with no partitions. Nearby a bunch of the boys were plying the shared secretary, Ellen, with cupcakes and leers.
“Peter, it’s Nathaniel,” said a harsh, whispered voice. The IT Director.
“Nate! How’re things!” Peter said. “Good to see you yesterday!”
“Yeah. Great. Listen. What the hell did you saddle me with?”
Peter’s jaw set. Alright. Not great. “What’s the problem, buddy?”
“This… Sarah, is that her name? Does she even know?”
“Sarah’s not… taking care of business?” Peter said, quietly.
“Jesus christ, Peter!” Nate said. Some of the other salesmen looked his way, even with Ellen’s breasts as a distraction. She had clearly gotten bigger, overnight. She shot him a quick “save me” look. “You left us some sort of… depraved nymphomaniac! I’m married! She’s been going around the entire building trying to get dicks between her lips!”
Peter tapped his pen on the desk. “Nate I’m not certain what the problem is.”
“Fucking hell!” Nate said. “Peter, this is crazy. Contract is off. Come get your weird whore. No. I’ll get a taxi for her. Next time, get one that at least knows a little discretion!”
He hung up.
“Okay! Great! Glad everything is working out!” Peter said, loudly. Fuck. He felt a surge of unaccustomed, unusual anger. The phone cracked in his hand, the plastic cutting into his palm. He kept his smile light and sunny.
Weird, he had such a hardon, all of a sudden.
Peter walked over to where the boys were helping themselves to cupcakes and long looks down Ellen’s blouse. “Hey, back to work, huh, guys?” he said, loudly. Mother-FUCKING Nate. Gets handed a BONAFIDE BIMBO and whines about the blowjobs. Christ. Probably couldn’t get hard.
“We’re just taking it easy,” said some junior kid. Eric. Peter gave him his biggest smile, clapped him on the shoulder, and then squeezed. Hard. Eric gasped. Peter felt much better.
“Take it easy somewhere else,” Peter suggested. He gave a long, meaningful look to the other males. They dropped their gaze. Then they trooped off, Eric rubbing at his shoulder. Peter wondered if he should’ve squeezed harder. “Ellen, lets talk in the meeting room.”
He let her go first. Ellen was in her early 30s, a dirty blonde with hair that was never quite as long as he liked. She had bags underneath her eyes, usually, and a mean, firm line for a mouth. That had dissolved underneath a few days of stuffing it with pink cupcakes, lollipops, lemon sours, donuts, and whatever else was around. Now that gaunt face was filling out, and was both grateful and confused.
“Ellen, you work for me, now. Only me,” Peter said. He shut the door behind him.
“Oh! Uh…” Ellen sunk into a chair. Her mouth stayed open. She must’ve had pretty big breasts all this time, the minx, for them to be so prominent now. They heaved in time with her breathing. “Did the CEO say that?”
“I said that,” Peter said. He adjusted his tie. His erection screamed at him. “Any problem?”
She looked at him with big, watery eyes. He was the biggest guy in this whole fucking company. Of course she’d be pleased. “Um. Sure, Peter.”
“Peter?” he said.
“Mr… Brzezicki,” she said. Ellen wore dark black slacks, sexless as a garbage bag, but her legs were open and her eyes glassy. Peter felt an urge to just put his leg in between them, tear her worthless blouse apart, expose her tits to the air, and not stop until she was…
No. No, not yet, at least. Testosterone pounded in him, his cock a diamond, and Peter had to close his eyes. Not yet. A few more days, Walter had said. Part of being a man was control. Control, damn it. He didn’t have to paint every girl he knew in fresh coats of jism.
He opened his eyes. “Good,” he said. “One thing. No pants. Not professional.”
“Uh…” Ellen gave him a look, realized he was serious, searched her own emotions, and found them to be sort of turned on. “Okay,” she said.
“And let me know if anyone is bothering you,” Peter said. “Okay. Get back out there.”
He did give her a pat on the ass as she left. The little squeak she made made him feel a little better.
Then Peter went to beat off in the bathroom.
“He’s at the top,” Cam insisted.
“Look,” Paul said, “I know what you’re saying, but all you’re doing here is recreating the org chart.”
“Yeah, and that’s how it works!” Cam said. “It’s not just tits and ass like it is with the girls. It’s all about social hierarchy for men.”
Erin walked in. She had waited for a good long while in the break room for Myra to show up, which she never did. For once, she felt a really strong need to talk things over. Things like: the weirdness in the sales room, the smug smiles on all the boys, the way the girls were pulling out dusty makeup kits and going right for the ruby red lipstick. The fact that she herself was currently licking and relicking the unfamiliar dark brown liner she had slathered on her own lips. And maybe, MAYBE, discuss the way she had been fondled by a man.
The redecorators had, at least, given up on the IT room. It was still the same fetid den of dark corners and forgotten rainbow cabling. Forgotten drinks and half-eaten cupcakes littered available surfaces.
“The hell are you guys doing?” Erin said. The boys had completely rebuilt their girl wall, and secured it with clear plastic tape. And next to it was… a growing boy chart. “Oh my god.” she said.
“Erin, can you help us with this?” Paul said. He waved her over. “We’re having trouble.”
“It’s not easy like ranking the girls,” Cam said. “That’s just, you know, look at a picture. And maybe some other stuff like personality. Boys are all CONTEXTUAL.”
“You’re overweighting this! Look, I don’t care if a guy is a freaking billionaire, if he’s fat and bald and looks like a naked ape girls are just gonna say no. Not hot. You’ve got to consider the evolutionary biology.”
“Yeah, and the best provider does the mating. This is just monkey primate level shit. Look, Erin, who goes on the top?”
There were staff shots all along the wall. A bunch of bored looking male staff pictures. Erin’s eyes wandered until she found Michael, her ass-slapper. It still felt warm where had touched her. God damn it. That should not be hot. He looked like a high schooler.
“Move him up a bit,” she said, hating herself. Hating how she had sat in a stall for a solid five minutes, afterwards, waiting for that juicy, wet feeling to go away.
“Him? He’s a nobody. Junior sales, no muscles to speak of.” Cam said.
“Just.. do it,” Erin said. “I’m the expert, okay?”
She examined the board. Yep. There they were. Sad. “Guys, really?”
There were pictures of Cam and Paul themselves, at the very bottom. The boys looked abashed. They looked at their shoes. “We’re just being objective,” Cam said, defensively.
And to make matters worse, they had added the regular girl staffers to their ridiculous rankings. The two watched, silently, as Erin looked up and down for—and there she was.
Halfway up the ladder. She looked for Myra. Two steps below her. Of course, they were all beneath the bimbo patrol. Still… not bad.
“We can move you up, if you want,” Paul offered.
“It’s… fine,” Erin said. She didn’t really feel the need to correct the boys. And hey, halfway up. Not bad at all. And that was with her dressing like an indie band drummer. A bit of makeup, some heels..
She picked up a half-finished pink cupcake on a table. Cam coughed, discreetly. “I’m still working on that,” he said, and plucked it out of her hands.
Fine. She had better things to do. Erin walked over to her computer, while the guys bickered, and sat down to search corporate holdings for Walter.
Three minutes later she was watching a spanking video and trying to keep her hands out of her thighs.
Myra was getting concerned by her level of... distraction.
She had always prided herself on her organization. She had multiple work calendars, iphone and outlook, and a redundant paper one. If she had been asked to write down her strengths she would’ve written “ORGANIZED” as item one of a bullet list. She would’ve carefully written each bullet. Generally speaking on Monday she knew what she was going to wear on Friday.
But now she was feeling…. Not ditzy EXACTLY or spacey EXACTLY but just a bit.. distracted.. by such things as walking next to a boy. Todd. Todd with his big ropey arms and his firm, unceasing stride and his big, wide shoulders. He was maybe a foot taller than her. Before it had made him seem kind of ungainly and outsized but now, sort of like a whole lot of MAN.
“So…” Myra began. Her eyes ran down the cut of his jaw. Yes, it was definitely chiseled. Whatever plans she had to bring up the Lydia-thing, or the Mysterious-Girls-thing, or the Corporate-Takeover thing… they kept floating away. Of course, it was hard for her to keep up to his long steps. “Uh. Todd. Could you. Maybe. Slow down a little?”
“Oh,” Todd said. He paused, then tried to shorten his stride. It was clearly challenging for him not to stomp about, and so decidedly masculine that Myra lost her train of thought again.
She just had to admit it. She was hot as hell for Todd.
“Todd. Uh,” Myra risked a small smile. “How’s it going?”
He shrugged. “Fine.”
At least he came to a stop. Myra dug her shoe into the brand new carpet and twisted it around. “Uh…” she stammered. “What’re you… up to this weekend?” Even she wasn’t sure if she was asking him out.
“Probably play a lot of golf,” Todd said, with that nearly imperceptible shrug.
Golf! Myra would’ve, in her current frame of mind, predicted lumberjacking or perhaps pleasuring young attorneys, but she was horny enough to make golf work. Clean-cut boys whipping their sticks around, putting balls into holes. Todd driving a four-iron or whatever it was called a thousand yards. Making a satisfied little grunt as his biceps wound up.
“I fucking love golf!” Myra blurted out. She beamed.
Todd started walking again.
“Do you play?” he asked. Myra ran the words through her head, over and over. Did that mean he wanted her to play? Maybe that’d be unfeminine, to stride onto the golf course with her own wood, her own grunts? Or maybe he in his own mind’s eye was picturing her in a pink little skirt, bent over just a little, maybe a bit more than necessary, asking him to sidle up behind her and assist with her swing…
“Myra?” he prompted.
“Oh!” She had been gone, getting fucked on a mental golf course, for way too long. “Uh. Yes! A little!” She had been mini-golfing before, right? She must’ve. Everyone had gone mini-golfing at some point in their lives.
“No, I mean, I think we’re here.”
Myra only slowly reoriented on the scene in front of them. They were in accounting, which she had to visit to collect various compliance documents. It had been a poorly-lit den, run by a tight-lipped company lifer who treated each page like scripture, and insisted on lecturing her on matters she cared nothing about. And then a few junior accountants with watery eyes, their eyes too close to computer screens. Things had changed.
First, the space had been visited by the remodeling fairy. Now there were bright banks of overhead lights, almost too much, beating down on the painfully white men there. And the same glass desks, and an overpowering smell of half-dry paint.
Also, the head accountant was down on the carpet, leaking blood out of his nose onto the fresh new fibers.
The other two junior associates were duking out out, no hesitation, with total savagery. They were both reedy 20 somethings. Myra recalled them with glasses, but both were gone, now. Blood streamed down the face of one from a gash on his upper forehead, probably caused by the metal ruler the other was whipping around. But metal-ruler was worse off—his mouth gushed bright red blood, and he spit it, distracted, periodically. The two men circled each other, ignoring their motionless boss.
Myra’s instinct was to run like hell.
“What the FUCK is going on here,” Todd roared. Myra ducked behind him. He smelled good, she noticed.
One of the men risked a look at her, and paid for it with a ruler to his cheek, tearing another gash. He jumped right back in, straight in to the other, and the two scrabbled, desperate, on the floor. Red flecks spattered the carpet.
Todd strode in, picked up one of the boys, and tossed him, without hesitation, into a nearby wall. Motivational posters shook. The man crumpled.
It was the hottest thing Myra had ever seen.
The second man was already groaning and disoriented, but Todd put a boot into his ribs to make sure of it. The entire scene had taken just a few seconds. Todd wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Check the offices, see if Clara is in there,” he ordered her. Myra nodded. She would’ve nodded, at that moment, to just about anything. “I’ll keep an eye on these guys.”
Clara was in the head accountant’s office. So was, like, a bucket of jizz.
It smelled like a 15 year old’s sock. Opening the door was like walking, abruptly, into a porn set in a cheap office set. Seated in the chair, her legs casually up on the desk, giggling, was what sort of looked like Clara, although with tits the size of soccer balls. And the picture Myra had wasn’t coated in cum, like this girl was. Clara munched delicately on a cupcake, and in spite of all the sex and EVERYTHING Myra could still smell the sugar. It smelled pretty good.
“Oh, hi,” Clara chirped. She shifted her legs. She was mostly naked, although there was some fabric wrapped around her waist, and what was probably once an AgraRipe! t-shirt. Now it was more of a cum-rag. “Did the guys work things out?”
“Sort… of…” Myra said. The smell was affecting her. Her knees felt wobbly, weak. There was so much hot, delicious cu—no, no, that was ridiculous. No.
“They got upset because I have two boobs and there’s umm… one more than two… of them. And I was like, guys I have all sorts of you know, holes, and stuff, and shoot I have hands, but they wanted to fight and I was like, well, that’s sort of hot so okay.”
“Sure,” Myra said, nodding along. That made sense. Super hot when guys fought over you to be their sex toy. No. Wait.
Todd poked his head in. “Jesus,” he said. He poked his head back out, and then tossed a huge swath of fabric at Myra. “Here, put this on her, and we’ll hustle her out.”
It was Todd’s shirt. Myra’s head slowly made connections. Right, put it.. On… Myra. No. Clara.
“I’m sorry, I’m out of milk, if you want some,” Clara said, apologetically. She let Myra put the big shirt on top of her, where it hung down to just past her waist, mercifully. Tented by two big, bulging tits.
“That’s totally fine,” Myra said. “Clara?”
“Yes?” the girl said.
“You’re fired.”
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