Emma’s Policy, Part 2
Story by All These Roadworks (2021).
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As a senior executive at the firm of Kavenagh & True, Emma had staked her reputation on a diversity policy to support women in the workplace - but six months later, far from delivering the benefits Emma had promised, it seemed to be losing the company money and productivity.
Tim, the head of accounting, had promised to give Emma three more months to turn the numbers around before he reported her failure to the senior partners - on the condition that she become the pilot for *his* idea of how the company should treat women. Reluctantly, she agreed, and now each week she is required to take on an additional, cumulative rule regulating her behaviour in the workplace, slowly transforming her into Tim’s ideal female employee.
In week one, she was told to address all men in the company as “sir”. In week two, she was required to respond to demeaning pet names like “sugar-tits” or “bitch” as if they were her name. In week three, she was given a dress code - sexy underwear, short skirts, high heels, copious cleavage. And in week four, she was told to stop resisting when men sexually harassed or groped her.
This culminated in an hour-long meeting with a junior partner where he openly kneaded Emma’s tits like stress while discussing whether she’d look prettier with cum on her face or boobs - and not only did she sit there, smile, and take it, but afterwards, to her surprise, she found herself rushing to the toilets to masturbate to a powerful orgasm…
Emma’s vague feeling of arousal that she had experienced when the junior partner had humiliatingly groped her tits didn’t go away over the weekend, and on Monday she was distressed to realise that her cunt had become wet leading up to her fifth direction from Tim. Her face was flushed, and she was carefully keeping her legs pressed together when he came to see her in her office on the Monday morning.
“What do I have to do, sir?” she asked.
“Initiative,” said Tim. “I like it. Good cunt. This week we’re going to work on your sitting posture - or rather, kneeling and sitting. From now on, there’s only two ways that you’re going to sit while inside the building. Either you kneel in front of the man you’re talking to - whether he’s standing or seated, it doesn’t matter - with your back straight and your tits pushed forward. Or if you must sit in a chair, you pull your skirt up to your waist before sitting, so it’s not between your ass and the seat, and you keep your legs spread while you sit.”
“But…” she protested, “that will show….”
“It will show your cunt,” Tim agreed. “Or at least your panties. Don’t worry - men are already thinking ‘cunt’ when they look at you, you’ll just be meeting your expectations. If you don’t like it, you can kneel instead.” He looked her up and down. “Why don’t you start now?”
She flushed, assessed her options, dithered - and then, reluctantly, got down out of her chair, came around the desk to be beside Tim, and sank to her knees, being careful to keep her back straight and her tits pulled out.
She felt her cheeks burning. This was so humiliating. Her face was level with his crotch. She was this man’s equal - but right now she felt like his pet.
“Good cunt,” said Tim. He reached down and squeezed her left tit - hard. She yelped - but felt a surge of interest in her pussy at the same time.
“You look like a sex object,” he told her.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, as she was required to.
Emma had thought she couldn’t be more humiliated in the office, but she had been very wrong. Once Tim dismissed her, she went to her office - but after a few attempts, she realised she couldn’t operate her computer while seated. She had to exercise her second option - to pull her dress up to her waist and sit on her chair with her legs spread and her panties showing.
She could barely concentrate like that. She was constantly afraid someone was going to come in and see her. And, even worse, the constant fear and awareness of her exposure was making her wet. Her cunt got wetter and wetter with every minute, and soon her whole body was flushed, and the crotch of her panties was soaked through with her juices.
When someone *did* come into her office - and it was inevitably a man, as her whole work area was men - she would jump to her feet guiltily - and then sink to her knees in front of him, blushing. It was intensely humiliating. The men were always shocked, and it felt so slutty and inappropriate to be kneeling in front of a man at the office, with his cock level with her face. But it was better than sitting there and spreading her pussy for him.
Kneeling took away the last of her authority. Men never asked her for opinions anymore, or for instructions. They told her what to do. More and more of her time was occupied fetching coffees and doing photocopying for men who she was supposed to be managing. They would thank her by saying, “Good job, slut,” or, “What took you so long, fuck-cow?” and she would say, “Sorry, sir, thank you, sir.”
And of course, when she knelt in front of them, more than a few men would boldly push their crotches against her face, rubbing the groin of their trousers against her nose and cheeks, letting her feel their hard cock. And, as she was required to, she let them.
She couldn’t kneel at meetings, of course. She would just pull her chair up as close to the meeting table as possible, hoping no one could see that her skirt was bunched at her waist and her legs were spread wide. Unable to focus on the meeting, she would sit and let her brain cycle through feelings of shame, humiliation, and arousal, as her cunt grew wetter and wetter from her secret sluttiness, surrounded on all sides by men. When the meeting was over, she would often have to go straight to the bathroom to masturbate.
And at the end of the week, she had done nothing to advance her policy, and the numbers hadn’t improved, so she was due for another meeting with Tim, and another rule.
She was shocked by the video. She was already blushing, even before Tim showed it to her, because in order to be high enough to see it she had to sit in a chair, and that meant spreading her legs for Tim and showing him the visibly-wet crotch of her lacy pink panties.
But then he clicked the mouse, and the image sprung to life on his laptop, and she realised what she was looking at. It was footage from a camera, pointing down into the stalls in the women’s toilets, and right in the middle of the picture was Emma, sitting on a toilet with her skirt around her waist and her panties around her ankles, vigorously fingerfucking herself to orgasm.
Her mouth fell open as feelings of intense shame, violation and humiliation ran through her.
“You think we don’t have cameras in the toilets, Emma?” asked Tim. “You think the whole office is prepared to treat you like a sex-decoration but we’re shy about having surveillance in the bathrooms?”
“This is illegal, sir,” Emma complained.
“Is it?” asked Tim. “Do you want to show this footage to the police, do you? I’ll let you if you do.”
She swallowed, and thought about what he was saying. Then - “No, sir,” she said reluctantly.
“I didn’t think so,” he said. “In fact, I suspect you think it’s a good idea, and you’re glad we filmed you, isn’t that right?”
Her face was bright red and she knew she was pouting with unhappiness. But she said, “Yes, sir, it’s really great that you film women in the toilets, and I’m glad you caught my behaviour on camera.”
“Good cunt,” said Tim. “But it exposes a problem. This is your diversity plan in action, Emma - sluts like you running off to masturbate in the toilets when they should be working. It’s unacceptable.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Emma, hoping it would mollify him.
It didn’t. “New rule,” said Tim. “From now on, you’re going to ask permission from a man to use the toilets, and you’re going to tell him what you’re going to do in them. I’ll be checking to see if you’ve lied. You’ll also need permission before going on lunch break, or going home at the end of the day, or before rearranging or changing your clothes in any way. If you don’t get permission, you can ask a different man, but you have to wait 10 minutes before you do.”
“That’s so humiliating, sir!” protested Emma. “I’m not a child!”
“You’re as stupid as a child,” said Tim. “And you need a man to make your decisions for you. Unless you want me to go to the board. And maybe share this footage with them too.”
“No!” said Emma. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll ask permission.”
“Good cunt,” said Tim.
And it was every bit as humiliating as she feared. Later that day she found herself standing at the desk of a man who was two levels below her in the company - someone that should be grovelling to *her* for her approval - and saying, in a humiliated, small voice, “Please sir, may I use the women’s toilets? I need to piss.”
He looked at her in surprise and disgust. “Do you need my permission?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” she explained. “I abused the privilege of deciding for myself and now I don’t deserve to go without getting permission from a man.” (This had been the explanation Tim suggested she give if asked.)
“Okay then,” said her subordinate. “You can go and piss in the toilets.”
She did only what she had said - urinating, washing her hands, and leaving. She had been tempted to do more - when she reached the stall, she became aware that she was sopping wet, and she desperately wanted to masturbate - but she had looked up to where the camera must be, and refrained.
But when she came out, Tim was waiting for her. Without asking, he reached between her legs, under her skirt and felt the front of her panties.
“What did you do wrong, fuckpuppet?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir!” she said - and she genuinely didn’t.
“You asked to go into the bathroom and piss,” he said. “But the crotch of your panties isn’t soaked, which means you pulled them down and pulled them back up without asking for permission.”
“I thought…” Emma began.
“No one cares what you think, you dumb bimbo,” said Tim.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” she said.
“I’m not going to make you go back and wet your panties,” said Tim, “but we can correct your mistake in pulling them back up again without asking. Pull your panties down to your knees, and leave them there until you get male permission to fix them.”
She blushed. Everyone in the open-floor area was looking at her. “Right here?” she asked in a small voice.
“Did I stutter?” said Tim.
Mortified, Emma reached under her skirt, and pulled her lacy pink panties down her knees, where everyone could see them. She had to part her legs considerably to stop them falling all the way off.
“Good cunt,” said Tim, and walked away.
Emma had to walk in a humiliating waddle to keep her panties at knee level. She asked a couple of men if she could pull them back up, but they were amused by her predicament, and told her no. She went back to her desk - and then realised that sitting in her chair in her usual way would leave her naked ass against the leather seat, and her nude pussy spread to the world.
She whimpered, and sat, her panties falling to gather around her ankles - and then she could take it no more. No one was at her office door, no one could see her - she lowered her fingers to her fuckhole and began to furiously maturbate right there in her office.
Blessedly, no one came through the door - but the constant risk someone might just made her wetter and hotter, and when she orgasmed, she couldn’t help herself - she made a half-choked little mewl of lust, loud enough she was worried it might have been heard from outside her office.
But if anyone heard, they gave no sign.
Later she tried again. Waddling out of her office, she found a man, and said, “Please, sir, may I go into the bathroom and piss? I’ll need to lift up my skirt, and when I’m done I’d like to lower my skirt and pull up my panties.”
He laughed - but to her immense relief, said, “Okay, go do it.”
Over the next few days, she was surprised by how quickly she started feeling like using the toilet, going to lunch, or going home was a privilege, not a right. It was humiliating enough to say, “Please sir, may I go an piss and empty by bowels in the toilet? I’ll need to lift my skirt, pull down my panties, and pull them back up afterwards.” But on top of that, men would bargain with her.
“I could give you permission, sugartits,” said Cory in IT, “but only if you take off *all* your clothes in the toilets. You can put them back on again afterwards.”
“I’ll give you permission, fuckbunny,” said James in HR, “but you’ll need to pull down your panties right here, at my desk, and come back here before you pull them up again.”
“Let me think about giving you permission,” said Dinesh in Project Management, as he openly groped and squeezed her left tit. “Stand right here, while I think it over.”
She could, of course, refuse their demands if she didn’t like them, and wait ten minutes before asking someone else. But that only worked for as long as she could hold her bladder, and then she would have to take what was offered, whether she liked it or not.
She found herself often asking Paolo in Marketing for permission, even though his harassment of her was some of the most intimate - he would reach under her skirt, push her panties aside, and slide two fingers straight up into her hot, wet cunt whenever she came to talk with him, and call her a “rape-pig”, and she would have to stand there and smile and act like it was a compliment and call him “sir”. But after a few moments of this, he would give her unconditional permission to use the toilet, which was worth the brief violation. And besides, her cunt *liked* those two fingers, and she often found herself surreptitiously wishing he would take a little longer to make up his mind…
She still frequently needed to masturbate, but she did it in her office. She got caught twice, a little too lost in the pleasure of her pussy to realise a man was standing in her doorway and watching her fingering her cunt. When she became aware, she would jump, and dive her knees, guiltily wiping her fingers on her skirt, but she knew she had been seen. She knew they would talk. She knew the news would get around that she masturbated like a whore on work time - which went along with the inescapable implication that she *liked* all the degrading things that were happening to her, and that she got off on the abuse and demeaning treatment.
The fact that it was true - that she *was* almost constantly wet from the degradation - didn’t make it any less humiliating.
At the end of the week, she thought about running away. Just quitting her job, maybe moving to a different city. It would be hard to get a new job without references, but she was smart and dedicated - she’d find something.
She wasn’t quite sure why she didn’t. She told herself it was because the numbers on her policy might still turn around, and she could be vindicated - but she didn’t really believe it. But she wasn’t yet willing to admit to herself that when she thought about running, her mind turned to the powerful, humiliating orgasms she’d had in her office, and to the powerless, submissive feeling she’d had from kneeling in front of men and calling them sir… and she felt an unhappy twinge of regret at the idea of leaving it behind.
So at the start of week seven, she went back to Tim.
“You need to sexualise yourself,” said Tim. “Good women are good sex objects.”
“Is this not enough, sir?” she pouted, gesturing to her cleavage and short skirt.
He frowned at her. “You’re right on the edge of being lippy,” he said. “Good women don’t talk back to men.”
“Sorry, sir,” she said, eyes downcast. “What do I need to do, sir?”
“Body language, and spoken language,” he told her. “From now on, your body language is always calling attention to your fuckability. If you’re standing at someone’s desk, and not kneeling, you should be bent 90 degrees at the waist, your ass out, your tits hanging directly down. If you’re upright, then back straight, tits thrust out.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“If your hands are below your waist, then they’re either clasped behind your back to push your tits out and leave you vulnerable, or they’re clasped in your lap, drawing attention to your cunt but not covering it if it would otherwise be visible. In that situation, your arms are on either side of your tits, squeezing them together.”
She blushed, and practiced. She was sitting with her legs spread, showing Tim her panties, so she placed her hands just above her crotch, and used her arms to squeeze her tits together lewdly. She blushed. She felt like a sex object - which she supposed was becoming more true every day.
“If your hand are above your waist, they’re calling attention to your tits,” he said. “Cup them, lift them, stroke them, run your finger along your cleavage, play with a strand of your hair in close proximity to your udders. If people are looking at your face, you’re doing something wrong, and if I see people making eye contact with you a lot, I *will* be angry.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. Tim *was* looking at her face, so she used her arms to squeeze her tits again, making them jiggle, and was embarrassed to feel a momentary surge of happy accomplishment as his eyes drifted down, drawn to her funbags.
“And you mentioned spoken language, sir?” Emma prompted.
“Yes,” said Tim, still staring at her tits. “From now on, in every conversation with a man, you’re going to be putting the thought of fucking or raping you into his head. You don’t end a conversation until this has happened, so you might want to get used to putting it up front. You might casually mention that some object on his desk would feel nice being pushed into your cunt, or mention a sexual fantasy, or comment on his cock. You just want to create a nice pattern that no man ever speaks to you without picturing using you as a sexdoll, and get to a place where you can’t remember having an interaction with a man who wasn’t thinking about raping you.”
She pouted - and then whimpered. Her cunt had just given a happy spasm, and she’d felt a little wetness under her ass, and she’d suddenly realised she was *so* wet that her pussy juices were starting to puddle underneath her on the chair.
“Yes, sir,” she said, in a small voice. “May I leave?”
“Yes,” said Tim, “but if you’re thinking of going to your office, it’s closed until lunch - I’m doing a little minor renovation.”
She paused. She had been thinking of going back there and masturbating. She *needed* to masturbate. She could do it in an alleyway outside the office, but then she’d need to ask for permission….
“Is there something you want, slut-baby?” he asked her.
“Sir…” she began, flushing furiously. “May I go to the bathroom?”
“And do what?” he asked, smiling.
“Pull down my panties, sir…. And….” she blushed even deeper red. “And fingerfuck myself to orgasm, sir. And then pull my panties up again.”
Tim laughed. “I’m glad you’re finding your true nature, whore,” he told her. “Yes, you have permission. Go, enjoy yourself.” He tapped his laptop. “I’ll be watching.”
As it turned out, masturbating in the toilets, *knowing* that Tim was watching her, *knowing* that she was living up to and confirming every misogynistic thought he had, was the most intensely erotic experience she’d ever had. She couldn’t keep silent - from the instant her finger touched her clitoris, she found herself moaning deliriously. She wondered if people could hear her outside. She didn’t care - or rather, she did, but the humiliation associated with being heard just made her wettier and needier.
She found herself muttering. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m a slut, sir. Thank you for calling me a fuckpig, sir. I’m such a…. such a whore…. slutty, stupid whore…”
And then, with a half moan, half scream, she orgasmed.
Afterwards as the lust drained out of her, the shame came washing in. She couldn’t believe what she had done. She had been thinking with her cunt, like a common slut. God, she deserved everything that was happening to her. Tim was right about her. She wanted to cry. She wanted to masturbate again, so she wouldn’t have to think about it.
Instead, she pulled up her panties and went back to work.