Ciaran waited until he received the report from Alison before taking his next step.

 

But soon enough, there it was in his inbox - an official report, on Horrocks, Clinton & Quayle letterhead, signed by Alison, in which she recontextualised the sexual assault she had been subjected to on the morning train as something she had initiated and enjoyed.

 

He read her description of how she had sluttishly pushed her ass into a stranger’s face, removed her panties in public, and basically forced him to rub her clit until she had orgasmed, and how she had rewarded him by giving him her skirt and then stood there whorishly bare-cunted on the train until Ciaran had forced her to get dressed again.

 

It was enough to ruin Alison’s life all by itself, let alone in combination with the stack of other damning paperwork and images he had compiled of her.

 

And the best thing was that he knew she had masturbated while typing it - rubbed her cunt while remembering how she had been sexually abused in public.

 

When he was done reading, he prepared Alison a tuna sandwich.  He laid out the bread, and the tuna, and then masturbated while thinking of Alison’s humiliation, until finally he ejaculated onto the bread and tuna.  He used the top slice of bread to wipe his cock clean, and then closed the tuna-and-cum sandwich.

 

Next he took out a long, tall glass, and pissed in it, until it was nearly full of his urine.  He added a small amount of orange juice to it from his office fridge.  Then he took a pill and crumbled it up into the pissy drink.  The pill was basically just a painkiller, but one that clouded thinking and judgement.

 

Then he took the sandwich and drink to Alison.

 

He didn’t bother to knock, of course.  He just walked in, and was pleased to catch Alison with her hand on her pussy.  She jerked it away as soon as he entered, blushing.

 

He passed her the food and drink.

 

“Have these,” he told her.  “And then I’ll take you to your appointment.”

 

“What appointment?” she asked.

 

“Have you forgotten already?” he said, shaking his head.  “You really are a dumb big-titted baby.  It’s a good thing you have a man to help you, or else you wouldn’t be able to do anything.”

 

She opened her mouth, intending to object to this misogynistic statement - but it echoed so strongly with the words that were already in her head.  It felt *right*.

 

So instead she just said, “Thank you.”  

 

And then, after a moment of silence, she said, “I’m sorry, sir.  I know I’m dumb.  What appointment?”

 

“The one for your pissing problem,” said Ciaran.  “You know - the way you keep wetting yourself and pissing in public like a whore?”

 

It didn’t feel fair to Alison.  Before this week, she hadn’t wet herself since she was a child.  And it was Ciaran who had told her to piss in public. 

 

But… she had done it.  Normal women didn’t piss in public just because a man told them to.

 

“I’m taking you to a specialist to help you,” he told her.  “Eat the sandwich, then drink all the drink.  It’s got electrolytes in it for hydration.  The specialist will want you to have a full bladder.”

 

Alison didn’t like this at all. She didn’t want to see a specialist.  She didn’t need a specialist.  But she was aware that Ciaran was already doing her a huge favour by not reporting the way she had wet herself in the office.  She would be sent packing, humiliated, if that information got out.  So she needed to do what Ciaran was suggesting.  

 

“Thank you,” she said.

 

Anyway, she could explain to the specialist how this was all confused, and that she didn’t need any help.

 

“Eat up,” said Ciaran.

 

And Alison did, eating the cum-soaked sandwich.  She didn’t even wrinkle her nose.  She was becoming used to the taste of cum in her food, without knowing that was what it was.

 

“And the drink,” said Ciaran.

 

This was a test.  The drink was mostly piss.  Alison would definitely taste it.  She would definitely think it didn’t taste good.  Would she know what it was?  Would she dare to challenge him over it?

 

She took a sip.

 

“It tastes funny,” she complained.

 

“It’s not meant to taste good,” he told her.  “It’s for hydration.  Just try to swallow it all.”

 

And she did.  She wrinkled her nose, and drank an entire glass of Ciaran’s piss without further complaint.

 

It was what she deserved.  Before he was done with her, she would be his toilet.  He would see that all of his piss ended up inside the sexy little bitch, one way or another.

 

“Come along now,” he told her once she was done, and she was forced to scurry along after him, in her too-small skirt with no panties, through the office, down the elevator, to the parking garage.

 

Once again he was parked in an isolated corner of the parking basement.  He didn’t unlock the doors, so that Alison was forced to stand awkwardly outside the car.

 

“Wear this,” he told her, and handed her a large bulldog clip, of the sort used for bundles of paper.

 

Alison felt stupid again.  “Wear it where?” she asked.

 

“On your cunt,” he told her.  “Clamp your cunt closed.  I don’t want you pissing in my car.  This won’t stop you from wetting yourself by itself, but it will help.”

 

“But… it will *hurt*,” complained Alison.

 

By now the drug in her glass of piss was taking effect, and she could feel her head becoming clouded.  It was harder to think.

 

“You are *not* pissing in my car,” reiterated Ciaran.  “Put it on.”

 

And Alison obeyed.  She reached down and grabbed her cunt lips, pulling them forward and together, and then she clamped them with the clip as if they were a thick pile of photocopying.  She squealed as the clamp went on.

 

“Now take off your clothes,” he told her, “and pile them on the passenger seat.”

 

Alison was tired of not understanding what Ciaran wanted - and scared to keep asking for explanations.  She fidgeted awkwardly.

 

“For heaven’s sake,” said Ciaran.  “You’re going to sit on your clothes.  If you lose control of your bladder in my car, your clothes will soak it up and protect my seat.  It’s insurance for me, and an incentive for you to control yourself until we get to our destination.”

 

She fidgeted some more.

 

“NOW, Alison,” he snapped, in a sharp tone, “or I’ll show your reports on your sexual misbehaviour to my managers.”

 

She squeaked, and began to undress.  Soon she was nude except for her high heels, with her clothes piled on the passenger seat.

 

Ciaran unlocked the car and let Alison get in.

 

“Sir,” said Alison nervously, “it’s day-time.  People will *see* me.”

 

Ciaran took his own seat on the driver’s side.

 

“Lie down,” he said, “so you’re below window level.  Put your head on my lap.  I’ll drive carefully.”

 

She wiggled into that position, her ass on the passenger seat, and her body laying across the gap between chairs, behind the gearstick, her shoulder beside Ciaran’s leg, and her head in his lap.

 

Almost immediately, Ciaran’s cock stiffened and pressed against Alison’s face through his pants.  She instinctively pulled away, but Ciaran grabbed her hair and pulled her back, until her lips were pressed against his hard dick, with only the fabric of his pants and underpants between them.

 

“Don’t wiggle,” he warned her.  “This is a little dangerous, and I’m only doing it to protect *your* modesty.  So work with me, and stay still.”

 

He used his hand to press her face a little harder against his cock.  And then he started the car.

 

He deliberately took a long route to his destination, to enjoy Alison in her helpless, submissive position.  He deliberately flexed his cock regularly, so she could feel it twitching against her face.  He could feel the pre-cum leaking from the tip of his cock.  He knew it was soaking through his underwear.  

 

Soon it would soak through the front of his trousers, too, leaving a wet patch.  He would have to change his pants when he got back to the office, but in the mean time, Alison would feel it - and taste it.  A wetness against her lips.  She might think it was just the moisture of her own slobber, given how her mouth was pressed against his crotch.  Or she might know what it was - and know that it was her fault, that she had caused it, that it was a natural consequence of her having to lie nude with her head in his lap because she couldn’t control her bladder.

 

He talked to her - both to pass the time, and because when she replied, he could feel her lips moving against his dick, and he could press on the back of her head so that the tent in his pants could push inside her mouth slightly, and he could feel, through the fabric, the pleasure of her lips closing on the very tip of his dick.

 

“So when was the first time you raped someone?” he said.

 

She squeaked.

 

“I mean, today wasn’t the first time, on the train, right?” he said.  “You looked like you knew what you were doing.  Do you do that often?”

 

“No!” she objected.  (He pushed his cock into her mouth as she opened her mouth to say this, and didn’t pull it out until he felt her lips on it.)

 

“Did you plan to rape that guy?” he asked, “or were you just too horny to think straight?”

 

“I didn’t…” Alison said.  She was so confused.  The clamp on her cunt hurt…

 

“You didn’t what?” asked Ciaran.  

 

“I didn’t…” she said again.  She wanted to say she didn’t rape him.  But she had confessed that she had, at length, in writing.  “I didn’t plan it,” she finished lamely.

 

He pushed his cock back into her mouth as she said this, and held her down on it until he was sure she was tasting his pre-cum as it soaked through his pants.

 

“You didn’t plan it?” he said.  “So you just lost control and started thinking with your cunt and raped a guy as a result?”

 

He didn’t let her answer that, holding her down on his dick to prevent her speaking.

 

“Tell me,” he said, “is it all women who think with their cunts, or is it just you?”

 

He released her so that she could answer.

 

She didn’t answer, though.

 

“It would be pretty embarrassing if it was just you, right?” he said.  “You’re supposed to be protecting women in our workplace, but actually you’re this weird rapey slut who thinks with her cunt.  That would be very humiliating, if it was just a problem with you, if you were just, by yourself, the worst possible woman.”

 

She made a moan of distress.

 

“It’s okay,” he said.  “You can say it’s all women.  You don’t have to be politically correct here.  I’m not going to report you.  It’s all women, isn’t it?”

 

She nodded.

 

“Sorry,” he said, “I can’t hear you.  Use your words, Alison.”

 

“It’s all women,” she said quietly.

 

“All women what?” he asked.

 

“All women think with their cunts…” whispered Alison.

 

He stroked her hair.  “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he said.  “Say it again, but louder.”

 

“All women think with their cunts,” said Alison, louder.

 

“Again.”

 

“All women think with their cunts!” said Alison, slightly louder than a conversational level.

 

“Good girl,” said Ciaran.  “So what I want you to do, from now on, whenever you’re making a decision, I want you to think to yourself, am I thinking with my cunt?”

 

He looked down at her.  “And if you are, or if you don’t know, what do you do?”

 

The answer came to her automatically, and she was saying it before she had even thought.

 

“Get help from a man.”

 

Ciaran smiled.  “That’s right,” he said.  “Good girl.  I think that will help you, Alison.  Now, we’re almost at our destination.  Apologise for cockteasing me with your mouth while we’ve been driving.”

 

She jumped.  “I don’t - I didn’t…”

 

“Alison, you’ve been slobbering over my dick since you got into my car,” said Ciaran.  “You’ve made my pants wet.  It’s disgusting.  Apologise, and clean me up.”

 

“I’m sorry,” said Alison.  “I… how do I clean it?”

 

“Take your blouse and rub it against my pants,” he told her.  “Then unzip my fly, and do the same for the underpants beneath that you’ve soaked.”

 

She obediently wiggled her blouse from under her ass, and began rubbing the white fabric against his crotch.  It felt so good that Ciaran had to struggle not to moan.  He parked the car, given they had arrived at their destination.

 

Then she tentatively unzipped his fly.  His dick immediately poked out, swathed in grey underwear.  

 

She began to rub at at that too, and now Ciaran was *definitely* breathing heavily.  Luckily Alison was focused on his cock and didn’t notice.

 

After a few minutes of this, he said, “Now clean me… underneath the underwear.  I’m afraid your slobber has soaked all the way through.”

 

He knew he was pushing faster than he should, but at this stage he was so aroused he couldn’t bear to stop her.  And to his delight, Alison didn’t argue.  She pulled down his underwear to reveal his hard cock, and stared at it for a few moments, her face flushed, before she finally wrapped her blouse around it and began to “clean” it.

 

Whether intentionally or not, her idea of cleaning it seemed to be to pump it with her fist.

 

Ciaran couldn’t help it.  For the second time that day, he orgasmed, flooding Alison’s blouse with his cum.

 

“You SLUT,” he spat, as his body jerked and his semen pumped into Alison’s blouse.  “I said *clean* me, not *give me a handjob*.  Oh, god, you disgusting whore.”

 

She jerked away, her face pale with shock and humiliation.

 

Ciaran took the blouse from her and made sure it caught all of his cum, and then wiped it along his dick to clean it completely.  Then he threw the blouse at her.

 

“Put it on, you perverted little slut,” he told her. “You can apologise to me later.  We’re here.”

 

“But…” said Alison.  “It’s wet…”

 

“I know,” he said.  “You *made* it wet.  But you can hardly go to an appointment in nothing but a bra.  So put it on.”

 

As Ciaran stuffed his cock back in his pants, Alison reluctantly put the blouse on.  The entire front of it was visibly soaked in cum, and it pressed wetly against her skin.  Her eyes looked like she was about to cry.

 

In other words, she looked pretty.  Ciaran smiled, and got out of the car to lead Alison to her appointment.

 

(TO BE CONTINUED)