Emma’s Policy, Part 1
Story by All These Roadworks (2021).
“It’s not fair!” protested Emma. “All the evidence showed that the policy *should* have worked.”
She knew she was pouting. She hated pouting. It made her look like an infant, and a senior executive at Kavenagh & True couldn’t afford to look like an infant. But she couldn’t help it. When she felt things were unfair, she pouted.
“I don’t care what *your* evidence says,” Tim explained carefully. “*My* evidence is the final HR expenses for last three quarters, and our expenditure has gone up by 20 per cent, with no corresponding increase in productivity or profit.”
He was talking about Emma’s diversity plan. She was the most senior woman employed by Kavenagh & True - and even then, three steps down the ladder from the senior partners - and she had argued strongly that the boys’ club culture of the firm was excluding women and costing the company opportunities and profits.
She had lobbied for the company to implement a packet of HR reforms - quotas for new female employees, generous maternity leave and return to work conditions, gender-blind promotion processes - and she had staked her reputation and job on the promise that the firm would see the benefits.
Except the firm had implemented her plan - but it wasn’t seeing benefits. The head of HR, Tim Bolland, was standing in her office right now, explaining that the diversity initiative had been a financial disaster.
“There has to be some mistake,” Emma pleaded. “Maybe there are benefits that don’t show up in the data.”
“There aren’t,” insisted Tim. “Women are costing the firm money, hand over fist, and when I go to the partners with this, they’re going to ask for your resignation, Emma.”
Emma was desperate. She’d worked so hard to get to this position. Resigning now would kill her career.
“It’s only three quarters,” said Emma. “Give it the full year. Maybe it will turn around. Please?”
Tim looked at her - at her silky chestnut hair, at the large tits that strained against her professional shirt-and-blouse combo, at the erotically desperate expression on her face.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “You see, I have my *own* theory about what this company needs from women. I think it needs its female employees to have a better attitude. I think if we saw some proper deference from women towards men, it would lead to an improvement in our financials.”
Emma scrunched up her face. “That’s ridiculous,” she said.
“Nevertheless,” said Tim, “I’ll do you a deal. I’ll hold onto these numbers until the end of the year, and see if they turn around. But for each week until they *do* turn around, you’re going to be the test case for part of *my* plan. I’m going to give you a direction about your behaviour, and you’re going to obey it, or else I’ll take what I’ve got straight to the partners.”
Emma thought about it - and, to her annoyance, realised she was pouting as she thought. She knew from the look on Tim’s face that she wasn’t going to like his directions. But if it gave her a chance to solve the problem - or at least a chance to find a job elsewhere before she got fired….
“What would be the first direction?” she asked, cautiously.
“I want you to address men as ‘sir’,” he said. “All men. I don’t care whether they’re above you or below you in the company - you call them ‘sir’.”
She flushed. It was humiliating and degrading. She hated it already. But… it was relatively harmless.
“All right,” she said, through gritted teeth. “You’ve got a deal… sir.”
If she had hated it in concept, she hated it even more in practice.
Her very first chance to follow Tim’s rule came shortly after Tim left her office, when a red-headed teenaged boy barely out of high school brought her some files she’d requested from archives.
“Thank you… sir…” she said, blushing bright red.
The kid did a double-take - a senior executive was acting like he was her superior - but he continued on his rounds without commenting.
Later, she found it undermining her management. She had gone to the desk of one of her underlings to demand some overdue work be finished immediately, but it didn’t come out quite right.
“Why aren’t those progress reports finished… sir?” she asked.
Her subordinate had been about to give a defensive answer, but the word “sir” changed the conversation completely. He looked up at her, surprised, and said confidently, “Because I haven’t got to them yet, *Emma*. I’ll tell you when I do.”
Blushing, thrown off balance, she retreated to her office.
It continued on like that all day. She felt like she was back in all-girls school, addressing her teachers. It was bad enough having to call all men “sir”, but she couldn’t do it without blushing, which just further reinforced the feeling that she was a naughty schoolgirl apologising to an authority figure.
The men in the office picked up on the changed dynamic, and by the end of the week she noticed that even people well below her in the office were starting to treat her like she was their subordinate. They would give her work without asking, talk over the top of her, and ignore her opinions.
It culminated on the last day of the week when a junior technician in IT grabbed her arm as she was walking past his workspace. “Fetch us a coffee, would you, sugartits?” he said.
She bristled, and slapped his arm away. “Get your own coffee… sir,” she said, and stalked away in a huff.
On Monday morning, Tim was in her office again.
“I suppose it’s too much to hope the numbers have turned around in a week?” Emma asked. “I mean, I suppose it’s too much, sir?”
Tim laughed. “No, that’s not realistic,” he said. “So are you ready to take another direction? This will be on top of your current one, of course - they all continue until the partners get the financial figures.”
Emma pouted - but she had known this was coming, and was resigned to it. “Yes, sir,” she said.
“Good girl,” said Tim.
Emma ground her teeth at the diminutive “girl”, but said nothing.
“So I heard you had a run-in with Cory in IT on Friday,” he said. “He asked you for a coffee, and you were quite rude to him.”
“He called me ‘sugartits’!” snapped Emma. “And I’m not his coffee girl! I’m a senior executive!”
“Well, that may be,” said Tim, “but you made a choice right then to have an argument when you didn’t need to. You could have just said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m busy right now.’”
“He called me ‘sugartits’!” complained Emma again.
“That’s a shitty reason to start an argument in the office, Emma,” said Tim. “So your direction for this week is that from now, you’re going to answer to those kind of pet names. If someone calls you ‘honey’ or ‘love’ or ‘sweetcheeks’ or ‘sugartits’ - or even, for that matter, if they call you ‘bitch’ or ‘slut’ - you’re going to act like they just gave you a compliment, and treat it like it’s the name your parents gave you. No rudeness, no shouting, no ignoring them, no complaints. Understand?”
Emma fumed. She wanted to tell Tim to get fucked. She wanted to take the numbers to the partners right now, AND tell them that Tim was blackmailing her. But… Tim played golf with the partners once a month, whereas she had once heard the partners speculating on whether Emma was good at sucking cocks. She had no illusions how it would go if she asked them to side with her against Tim.
So she did what she had to. “Yes, sir,” she said.
Tim smiled. “Great attitude, bitch,” he said. “Now, I expect you to go down to IT, apologise to Cory - loudly, in front of his whole team - and tell him it’s okay to call you ‘sugartits’ if he wants to.”
Emma went bright red - and she stayed bright red all the way down to the IT area, not believing she was really going to do this.
“Cory,” she said, arriving at his desk, face flushed and not making eye contact. “I’m sorry I was rude to you on Friday when you called me ‘sugartits’, sir. That was inappropriate, and if you want to call me ‘sugartits’, that’s completely okay, sir.”
There was nervous laughter throughout IT - the whole team had heard what she said. Cory, amazed said, hesitantly, “Apology accepted… sugartits.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Emma, and walked away as quickly as she could.
But word got out. IT made a point of calling her ‘sugartits’ from that point forward. Tim started loudly calling her ‘Kitten’ in public areas - to which she had to say, “Thank you, sir.” And after that, it seemed like men stopped using her name altogether.
“Here’s the documents you asked for, sweetie,” said the red-headed teen from archives on his next visit.
“Sign this for me, babe,” said one of her underlings, presenting her papers.
“Get out of my way, cunt,” growled a man from accounting, bumping into her physically in the corridor.
As people learned that there was no pet name that she would object to - and as they saw people get away with calling her “bitch” or “cow” - the disrespect escalated.
Friday ended with her giving a presentation on an ongoing contract to a group of senior analysts. When she was done, the man chairing the meeting - a man theoretically at the same level in the company as her - said, “Thanks for that, fuckdoll.” He looked at her, as if daring her to complain, while the other men at the meeting openly chuckled.
Emma flushed bright red - but she said, “Thank you, sir.”
She got a call from Tim on Sunday night.
“Bad news, cunt,” he told her. “Still no turnaround on the financials. I want you following your third direction from 9 am on Monday, so I thought I’d ring you now. Are you ready?”
Emma dithered. “I really hate this, sir,” she said. “It’s demeaning. I don’t know how this can possibly be good for the company.”
“Really?” asked Tim. “Morale among your direct subordinates is way up. Last week was their most productive week of the year. They *like* calling you a bitch, Emma. Now apologise for contradicting me.”
Emma took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said.
“Apology accepted, cunt,” he said. “Okay, third direction - clothing. I’ll put this in an email for you too, because I know you’re a woman and you’ve only got limited room in your head. You’re going to dress more attractively.”
“Rule 1,” he said. “Underwear. Nothing you wouldn’t wear on a date with a man you want to fuck you. Pretend you’re in front of the senior partners in nothing but your lingerie, and your career depends on getting them to rape you. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Rule 2,” he continued. “Heels. Nothing less than four inches. Rule 3 - skirts. Not more than two inches from your groin to the hem. If you bend forward 90 degrees at the waist, it *must* show your underwear to anyone standing behind you.”
“Yes, sir,” she said again, unhappily.
“Rule 4,” he went on. “Tops. They’re to emphasise the shape of your tits, not conceal them, and it’s your choice whether you show cleavage or underboob. If it’s cleavage, everything from half an inch above your nipples should be on display. If it’s underboob, everything from half an inch *below* your nipples - and in that circumstance, no bras.”
Emma heard herself whimper involuntarily.
“Rule 5,” said Tim. “Makeup - look like you’re on a sexy date. I want to see lipstick, eyeshadow, blush, the works. And rule 6, if someone comments on your appearance, you thank them for it, whether you think it’s a compliment or not. That’s all. Now, tell me you understand and will obey like a good cunt.”
“Yes sir,” said Emma. “I understand, and I’ll obey like a good cunt, sir.”
“Good bitch,” he said, and hung up.
Emma had never been so humiliated as she felt on Monday morning. Her large breasts were nearly falling out of her extremely low-cut top, she was wobbling on four-and-a-half inch heels, her bright red makeup made her look like an expensive prostitute, and she was studiously avoiding bending over for anything, knowing it would flash the semi-transparent pink lace panties she was wearing.
“Looking good, bitch!” called out a co-worker.
“Thank you, sir!” she replied.
“God-damn, you look like a whore,” said the red-headed teen as he walked by.
“Thank you, sir!” she replied, blushing.
“Look at the udders on this cow!” someone else called out, and someone else replied by yelling, “You belong on a dairy farm, slut!”
“Thank you, sir!” she said, hurrying to reach the privacy of her office.
Whatever respect she may have had in the office was gone. Men didn’t bother to try and hide the fact they were staring openly at her tits. No one called her anything but “bitch”, “slut”, “whore”, “cunt”, and “cow” – other than a small group of men who were actively competing to find the most demeaning thing they could call her, and had been delighted to find that she smiled and thanked them even when they called her “rape-pig”, “cow-tits” and ‘dumbcunt”.
And of course, they started sexually harassing her. Men would slap her on the butt as she walked by, or come up behind her and start a conversation by putting a hand on her shoulder or playing with her hair. They would deliberately brush past her tits, or rest a hand on her leg.
She put up with some of this, but other times she couldn’t help it, and would slap a man’s hand away from her.
So she suspected she knew what was coming next week.
She was right.
“If you dress like a slut,” said Tim, “you have to expect people will treat you like one. I can’t have you starting a fight with every man who treats you the way you deserve.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, hoping if she was nice to Tim the resulting direction wouldn’t be as bad - but her hope was in vain.
“From now on, I don’t want to see you resisting sexual harassment. You don’t have to encourage it, but you’re not going to move men’s hands away, or ask them not to, or use any body language that suggests it’s unwelcome. Do you understand, fuckpig?”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” she said.
“Good,” said Tim. And he reached out and deliberately - and painfully - squeezed her left tit, right there in her office.
She let him.
He did make her go around to every man she’d rejected over the last week, though, and apologise for being a bitch to them, and thank them for their interest in her. And while she wasn’t required to encourage men to harass her, that process made it pretty clear it was open season.
It was now rare for her to be anywhere in the building without a man’s hand on her. Her ass got sore from all the casual spanks it received. Most conversations with a man involved him putting a hand on her leg, then sliding it under her skirt and rubbing his finger back and forth over the crotch of her panties, while she kept talking and tried to pretend everything was normal.
Men would give her a kiss on the cheek at the end of meetings, if she was lucky - or otherwise a kiss on the neck, or (increasingly) a full kiss on the lips, with tongue, while squeezing her ass.
On Thursday she was summoned to a meeting with a junior partner. She thought it was to discuss a contract she had been working on, but when she arrived it became clear what he really wanted. He started the meeting by sitting her directly opposite him - no desk in between - and once she sat, he wasted no time in reaching out and grabbing both her tits and squeezing them like stress balls.
She squeaked - but her direction prevented her from pulling away and complaining. She asked the junior partner what he wanted. He replied by asking her if she thought women looked prettier with cum on their face, or on their tits. Blushing, Emma was forced to sit there and have a serious discussion about the pros and cons of having sperm on her udders or her face, while the man groped and squeezed her fuckbags painfully. And to add to the humiliation, the stimulation of her boobs was making her pussy wet.
The experience lasted half an hour, before he released her, and sent her back to her desk - but rather than going back to her desk, Emma went to the women’s toilets, locked herself in a stall, and masturbated furiously, chiding herself the whole while, berating herself for being a slut who had gotten aroused from sexual harassment. What kind of a whore gets wet from the way the junior partner had treated her?
The thought occurred to her as she played with her pussy that after four weeks she had lost all respect in the workplace, and men were openly using her as a sexual plaything. There were another eight weeks in the quarter - how much more humiliated would she be by then?
… and *that* was the thought that gave her her orgasm.