The coffee machine required Emma to bend forward a little to operate it, and when she did, her tiny skirt rode up.  Without panties, the whole office could see her bare ass cheeks and naked, shaved pussy - and they could see just how wet that pussy was.

 

Emma felt like she was blushing all the time now - a blush that wasn’t just on her face, but which spread down her body to make her tits feel hot and her wet, exposed cunt throb with humiliation and need.

 

As she stood there, mixing the milk into her new boss’ coffee, someone came up behind her and casually slid two fingers into her fuckhole.

 

Emma yelped, and dropped the coffee.  The mug smashed on the floor.  Coffee splashed on her legs.

 

Her violator pulled his fingers out of her cunt and wiped them clean on her face.  She didn’t even recognise him.  He was so junior in the company that only a month ago she would never have needed to know his name.

 

“I’m sorry I dropped the coffee like a dumb slut, sir,” she said quickly, looking down at the man’s shoes.  “Thank you for taking an interest in my pussy.  I like being finger-raped.”

 

She hated saying these things, but it was almost automatic for her to say them now, and the thought of resisting - of needing to be *made* to apologise - gave her a little fear of thrill and guilt.  She didn’t dare object to being casually sexually violated in the office.  Not anymore. 

 

Anyway, after all the things she had done, didn’t she deserve it?

 

Her abuser laughed.  “Better get down on the floor and clean up your mess, Sugar-Tits,” he said.

 

“Yes, sir,” said Emma.  “Thank you, sir.”

 

Cleaning the mess required getting down on all fours, and of course at that point her skirt rode so far up her thighs that she may as well not be wearing it.  Her whole buttocks were exposed to the office, her anus winking lewdly as she scrubbed at the spilt coffee and collected the sharp mug fragments.  She could hear laughter, and men exchanging derogatory comments about her as she scrubbed.

 

By the time she made a fresh coffee and returned to Tim’s office, she had been gone for almost 20 minutes.  She knelt beside Tim until he took the coffee from her hands, and then she immediately stood, turned away, raised her skirt to her waist, and bent forward, presenting her ass.

 

“I’m sorry I’m a dumb cocksleeve who took 20 minutes to get you coffee, sir,” she said.  “I need my ass spanked 20 times as punishment.”

 

This was part of her new normal.  Tim had made it very clear to her that he expected her to identify when she needed punishment, and ask for it.  If he had to tell her that she was to be punished, or was dissatisfied with her suggested punishment, it would go much worse for her.  Just this morning she had forgotten to kiss Tim’s cock hello when she arrived at the office, and the guilt and shame at forgetting had at least been displaced by the sick, perverted pride she felt when she told Tim that she needed to be slapped across the face three times for her disrespect, and he had *agreed* and told her she was a good girl for suggesting the right punishment.

 

Right now, Tim was staring at her bare ass.  “Not like that, Sugar-Tits,” he said.  “Over my lap.”

 

Blushing, Emma climbed into his chair, lying over his lap like a child, her ass upwards.  Tim began to strike her ass-cheeks with one hand, and Emma, like the slut she was coming to realise that she was, orgasmed on the 20th stroke - a particularly hard, agonising blow that made her squeal in pain and sexual delight.

 

Of course, on one level Emma was burning with rage at her treatment.  She was filled with hate for Tim.  She had been an executive at Kavenagh & True, and now she was Tim’s sex-doll secretary, treated like a bimbo, a decoration, a particularly slutty child.  She wanted to murder him, and burn down this whole company around him.

 

But another part of her was being broken down by the near-constant humiliation and degradation of her life.  She felt embarrassed of herself, of her tits, of her behaviour, of her gender, nearly every waking moment, and it was hard to feel like that without beginning to feel like it was true, and that she deserved it.  And likewise it was hard to not snatch joy from every small triumph - even if that triumph was having the man she hated most tell her that she was a “good slut”.

 

When her spanking was done, she apologised for orgasming like a whore from her punishment, and then licked Tim’s groin through his pants to clean up the smears of cunt-honey that her arousal had left on his trousers.  When that was done, she took her position at her new desk.

 

A month ago, she had had her own office.  Today, she had a desk in a corner of Tim’s.  And it wasn’t even a real desk.  Somewhere, Tim had found a school desk, designed for a 13-year-old child.  The surface was absurdly low, and it made Emma look and feel like she was sitting at a kiddy table next to the responsible adultness of Tim’s mahogany executive desk.

 

Her chair was a cheap plastic stool.  Tim had installed thick rubber phalluses on its top, that slid into her pussy and anus when she was sitting on it.  It had no stability, and wobbled easily.  Emma fell off it two or three times a day, sprawling cunt-up on the office floor, and Tim laughed heartily at her every time.  The desk itself had no privacy screen, so anyone in the office could look under it and see her spread, naked, dripping pussy plugged with a rubber dildo.

 

There was a name-plate on the desk.  It read “Sugar-Tits”.  Tim had made her go to the area that handled stationery requests and order it personally.  She had had to claim that she was legally changing her name to Sugar-Tits.  They were expecting to see her formally changed birth certificate by the end of the month now.  Tim had helpfully put the forms to request a legal change of name into her inbox.

 

There was a little pink teddy bear next to her computer monitor.  On its stomach were stitched the words “GOOD GIRL!”.  Next to the bear were a pink baby’s pacifier, and a package of large-size diapers.  They didn’t belong to Emma, but Tim kept putting them back on her desk when she moved them, and she had given up resisting.  She knew people were drawing their own conclusions when they looked at them, and she didn’t know if it was worse if people thought she was pregnant, trying to *become* pregnant, or was just herself a child who needed diapers and a binky.  She certainly *felt* like a small, humiliated child every time she looked at them.

 

And behind Emma, hanging on the wall, framed, were her current rules, for everyone to see.  They were headed “EMMA’S POLICY”.

 

The sign read:

• Good girls call men “sir”.
• Good girls accept the names they are given.
• Good girls dress to please.
• Good girls know that sexual interest is a compliment.
• Good girls kneel. Good girls spread.  Good girls don’t sit on their skirt.
• Good girls ask permission from men:
• ...to use the toilet!
• ...to stop working!
• ...to change how they’re dressed!
• Good girls help men imagine enjoying them.
• Good girls tell men to discipline them when they’re bad.
• Good girls know they are too stupid to make decisions without men!

Tim had made her kiss the document before he framed it, leaving a bright red slutty lipstick imprint on the bottom of the paper, and then sign her name next to it in crayon.

 

Emma stared at her computer screen.  Her old email address, emma@kavenaghtrue.com, had been decommissioned, and mail was now coming to her at sugar-tits@kavenaghtrue.com.   Much of her inbox was just filled with pornographic images.  Her former subordinates had started sending them to her as a joke, and she had complained to Tim, but Tim had whipped her tits for being disrespectful, and then told her she was to politely masturbate for 20 seconds to each image, and then send a personal reply explaining what she had enjoyed about it. 

 

As the images became more extreme, Emma found herself explaining she enjoyed the look on the face of the girl who was being raped in the image, or liking the way the woman’s huge fake tits made her look like a cow, or saying that the cum on the woman’s face made her look hot. 

 

(Except, of course, she wrote “bitch”, not “woman”, and “fuckballoons”, not “tits”.  Her former subordinate Jules was very strict about her language, and took pleasure in spanking her any time he caught her referring to women or their anatomy in non-degrading ways.)

 

But at the top of her inbox was an email from Tim.  Because of course it was the start of her 10th week of degradation, and her diversity policy was still showing no signs of turning a profit, and that meant it was time for her to take another step towards being Tim’s ideal female employee.

 

It read:

 

 

Emma stared at the email.

 

It didn’t even occur to her to not obey.  She had practically forgotten that she could just walk away from all this and quit her job.  Tim had so successfully associated the idea of shame and loss with the idea of her quitting that now, as his abuses became worse than the consequences of saying no to them, she still felt that she had no choice but to do as she was told.

 

Her name was going to becoming Sugar-Tits.  Her legal name.  Her real name.  She could change it back again in future, of course, but it felt… permanent.

 

And these other demands - needing to ask permission to piss, even at home.  Needing permission to get dressed in the morning.  What if Tim said no? 

 

She would need to be very good to him, she realised, so that he would be merciful, and allow her to wear clothes and use the toilet.

 

And the choice at the end - these all threatened permanence too.  They would *change* her.  How had she gotten into this?  She had to choose two of them.

 

The first was easy.  She took her birth control pills out of her handbag, and threw them in the bin.  She at least had a chance of not having any consequence from that.

 

But the second… she looked at the link to the hypnotherapist.  He offered conditioning to help women become “unburdened of complex thoughts - simple and happy”.  She shuddered.  She didn’t want to become stupider.

 

But that left only one option.

 

As Emma picked up the phone and dialled a plastic surgeon, she barely even noticed that another email had come in - yet another picture of a nude slut with giant fake tits.  Nor did she notice that she was automatically starting to masturbate as she stared at it, and still masturbating as she told the receptionist that she wanted an appointment to discuss “a significant enlargement of my fuckmelons”.

 

All she was thinking about was that she would need to thank Tim very nicely for not forcing her to do all three options.  And the appropriate way to thank Tim would be to suck his cock.  And the idea of wrapping her mouth around Tim’s cock was, perversely, making her very, very, very wet.

 

From his desk across the room, Tim watched Emma orgasm quietly while asking to be turned into a plastic fuckdoll, and thought to himself that she was becoming an absolutely excellent role model for women at Kavenagh & True - so excellent, that it was about time she began teaching others...

 

(END)