Emma Pick, barely twenty-one, perched on the edge of the chair, her posture a delicate dance between nervousness and a subconscious awareness of her own allure. The fabric of her tailored blazer strained slightly across her chest, a subtle testament to the generous curves beneath.
Her massive tits, undeniably her most prominent feature, seemed to defy gravity, a constant source of unwanted attention. She tugged at the hem of her skirt, a nervous habit she couldn't seem to shake. Despite reaching her knees, she wished it were longer, a shield against male gaze.
Across the mahogany desk, Mr. Harper, a man more than old enough to be her father, steepled his fingers, his gaze unwavering.
A throbbing ache had settled behind Emma's eyes the moment she laid eyes on him, a dull, persistent pressure that made it difficult to focus.
She was disgusted with the way men always objectified her, the way their eyes would inevitably drift to her breasts as if all she was, was a pair of gigantic tits.
Unfortunately, her interviewer was no exception; in fact, his stare was more intense and objectifying than most. It lingered on her chest, as if he was undressing her with his eyes.
Feeling objectified only made her headache worse, a sharp, stabbing pain that seemed to amplify her anxiety.
Emma realized she would have to put up with it. It was her first interview, and she told herself she needed to get used to it, that this was the price she had to pay to succeed in a world controlled by men.
'Swallow your pride! You need a job!'
That thought seemed to ease her headache, she relaxed and answered Mr Harper's questions.
He wasn't an attractive man which only meant the roaming of his sexist eyes worse. She tried to relax and focus on his questions, her professional future depended on it.
Emma shifted in her seat, trying to find a position that would alleviate the discomfort, but it was no use. It was simply too hot, and without thinking, she reached for the buttons of her blazer, her fingers trembling slightly as she unfastened them.
The fabric parted, freeing her tits from the confines of the blazer and revealing the almost obscene cleavage hidden beneath.
The action was impulsive, almost involuntary, but it made Emma feel such relief from the heat and the pain in her head, it felt good especially when she arched her back and pushed her tits forward, angling them perfectly to his gaze.
A rush of cool air against her skin snapped Emma back to reality. She blinked, her mind momentarily blank, and realized with a jolt that she had completely lost track of the interview.
"Sorry, what was the question?" She suddenly felt like a bimbo, more concerned with showing off her tits than paying Mr. Harper the proper respect and attention.
The thought was mortifying, and yet, strangely, it seemed to ease the throbbing in her head.
"I asked you, what your measurements are, Emma," Mr. Harper said, his gaze lingering on her chest with blatant lewdness. The way he said her name, so casually, so possessively, sent a shiver down her spine.
Some part of Emma knew something about the question wasn't right, that it was wildly inappropriate and unprofessional. But the headache made it so hard to think, to process the red flags waving in her mind; in fact, her mind found it difficult to process anything negative about Mr Harper.
Instead, she found herself thinking how grateful she was that her interviewer was so comfortable looking at her tits, that he seemed to approve of her body. She disregarded her concerns and answered his question.
"They are 38, 26, 34 inches…." The answer felt wrong on her tongue, a violation of her privacy, a surrender of her dignity. And in order to make it right, to appease the strange force that seemed to be guiding her actions, she immediately added.
"Sir." Yes, that made the ache in her head better, a subtle easing of the pressure behind her eyes.
"Those are acceptable measurements. That brings me to my second question. Are you surgically enhanced, or are those tits you keep teasing me with real?" Mr. Harper's question hung in the air, crude and invasive, his gaze never leaving her chest.
A jolt of shock and disgust ran through Emma, as somewhere in her subconscious she understood how inappropriate and blatantly sexualizing the question was. But every time she tried to think about that, to verbalize her disgust, the confusion and pain in her head intensified, robbing her of her anger and her will to resist.
It felt much easier, even right, to simply answer his question, to give him what he wanted.
"Yes, sir," she replied, her voice surprisingly steady, almost breathy.
"My tits are 100% real." Before she realized what she was doing, a giggle escaped her lips, a soft, girlish sound that felt foreign and yet strangely right.
She never giggled; that was something only bimbos and sluts did. And yet, giggling in his presence, without thinking, made her feel so much better, it felt so much more natural.
“Excellent I enjoy a natural sex toy" he continued, his gaze intense and unwavering.
"Tell me about your sexual history. How experienced are you? What are your preferences?"
His voice and demeanor were so controlled and authoritative, the question, while shocking, almost felt like a natural progression of the interview, a necessary step in assessing her suitability for the role.
Emma's brow furrowed in confusion. The headache returned with a vengeance and she suddenly felt like the dumbest of cunts, she simply couldn't form a single coherent thought.
“My sexual experience?” mindlessly she asked.
"As my secretary, I require your complete availability, your primary job will be to empty my balls whenever I desire it and to give me something pretty and sexy to look at in the office," Mr.Harper said, smirking as his eyes raked over her body like a starving dog at a meat market.
Despite the disrespectful and incredibly sexist nature of his words, Emma giggled again, feeling a strange sense of gratitude that Mr. Harper had explained such a basic thing to her. She had never realized until now how intimate and sexual the work of a good secretary truly was.
A soft blush rose on Emma's cheeks. The idea of sexual servitude, which would have once horrified her, now seemed perfectly natural, even desirable.
After all, a man like Mr. Harper, with his fat belly and wrinkled face, could have any woman he wanted. And she would get paid to fuck him. She felt supremely lucky she had applied to this job first, as if destiny itself had led her to this moment.
Before she answered his question, she deliberately uncrossed her legs and raised the hem of her skirt as far as the tight fabric allowed, well above mid-thigh, exposing a generous expanse of smooth, pale skin. He had said she would be something sexy to look at, she was just getting started earlier with her duties.
"I've only been with a few men. I've fucked two boyfriends in highschool and college but neither was any good." She paused, licking her lips slightly.
"And I've sucked five cocks, in total. I always made sure they came hard." She paused, taking a deep breath, her enormous tits rising and falling beneath the fabric of her formal shirt.
"But I promise you, sir." she continued, her gaze unwavering.
"This job, working to empty your balls, will always be my only priority. I'll do whatever it takes to serve you well, to ensure your complete satisfaction." A genuine smile spread across her face, a smile that radiated sincerity and an obscene eagerness to please.
“As for my preferences," she added, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, "whatever hole you want, in whatever position you want, any time you desire. My job would be to please you, sir."
Speaking such words made her feel like the sluttiest of bimbos, and yet, strangely, they felt right, as if she were finally embracing her female nature. With this thought the headache finally seemed to disappear.
“Shame you are used goods; that will affect your salary. But I think we can proceed to the practical stage of the interview, let's start by seeing if you know how to use those fuck melons of yours” the almost 50-year-old said, his voice thick with anticipation as he stood up and began to unzip his pants, his eyes never leaving her.
Emma felt her knees weaken almost instantly, a wave of heat washing over her body. She threw her blazer aside as if she regretted wearing it in the first place, a subconscious understanding that if she got the job, she wouldn't be wearing much around him, and this was the start of that
trend.
She ripped open her shirt, revealing she was not wearing a bra, finally freeing her fuck melons, as he had so crudely called them. She was sure they would get her the job, that their sheer size and perfect shape would be enough to make her stand out from the pack.
With a practiced hand, she raised her tits, showcasing their fullness and the deep cleavage between them. She licked them, savoring the taste of her own skin, before spitting on the valley between them repeatedly, creating a glistening, lubricated surface.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reached out and took his already erect cock in her hand, guiding it between her breasts.
Emma had always found the idea of tit jobs disgusting and degrading, something only a cheap whore would do. Now, she couldn't think of any other reason for why she had tits in the first place, their sole purpose was to pleasure men after all.
She began to move, slowly at first, grinding her fuck bags against his throbbing cock, savoring the sensation of his thick, veiny shaft against her sensitive nipples.
She increased the pace, her massive tits jiggling wildly as she worked his manhood with eager hands, getting increasingly aroused by the effort, her breath came in ragged gasps.
Mr. Harper's hands reached out to grasp her nipples, pinching and twisting them with brutal force.
Emma cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure, as his fingers dug into her flesh, her tits aching with a delicious agony. She arched her back even more, thrusting her tits forward, eager to feel his touch, no matter how rough, no matter how degrading.
As she continued to work his manhood, she realized how wet she had become, her cunt juices seeping between her legs, soaking her panties. Her slutty hole was dripping, having her tits abused and behaving like a bimbo slut made her so fucking horny, her body responding to his dominance in a way she never thought possible.
She sucked on his cock, her lips and tongue working in tandem to drive him wild, her gag reflex fighting against the urge to swallow him whole, to take every inch of his shaft down her throat.
Emma could feel him growing harder, thicker, his veins pulsing with anticipation, his cockhead slick with pre-cum.
The more she sucked, the nastier she became, the more she craved him and his approval, his validation, to be told that she was worthy of him, of his cock and seed, to be used and abused until she was nothing more than his stupid bimbo whore.
"Are my fuck bags any good, sir?" she begged, her voice hoarse with lust, her eyes pleading for his approval.
“Am I a good little fuck toy for you?" She continued to suck and grind, her body trembling with need, desperate for his approval, for his touch, for his complete and utter domination.
"You're a barely adequate slut! Your tits are the only acceptable thing about you!" he sneered, his words like a slap to the face, shattering the fragile illusion of pleasure and control she had been clinging to.
She felt a wave of shame wash over her, his humiliating words were like a punch to the stomach, in fact she would have preferred if he had beat her. She was nothing if she didn't earn his favor, she was nothing more than a worthless piece of rapemeat.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she cried like the stupid bimbo she was, reveling in the humiliation, finding a strange sense of pleasure in her own degradation.
He slapped her face, giving her a reason to cry, and she welcomed the pain, the sting of his hand against her cheek, a physical manifestation of her worthlessness.
His abuse, his wrath, were infinitely better than his indifference, a sign that she still mattered to him, that she still had a chance to earn his favor, to prove that she was worthy of his attention.
Desperate to earn his approval, she said the most disgusting and whorish thing she could think of, words that would have once made her skin crawl, now rolling off her tongue with a disturbing ease.
"Please, sir," she begged, her voice trembling with desperation.
"Please, take my ass, it's my last virgin hole, sir. Please, savagely it rape it to your hearts content! Rape me until you are satisfied!” Her words reflecting her utter need to be degraded and destroyed by his Cock.
She didn't care if she got the job anymore, the truth was in her current state Emma would have gladly paid him just to rape her, to take her anal virginity in the most brutal and degrading way possible.
All she cared about now was to earn his praise, to prove her worth as his personal plaything.
When he nodded his approval, a cruel smile twisting his lips, she eagerly turned her back to him, bent over, and spread her ass cheeks wide, presenting her virgin hole with a desperate, pleading look in her eyes, a silent invitation to violate and conquer.
A predatory gleam lit Mr. Harper's eyes as he grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back to expose her neck.
"That's right you worthless whore!" he growled, his voice thick with lust and contempt.
"You have finally learnt your place."
Without any preamble, he grabbed his throbbing cock, slick with pre-cum, and aimed it at her virgin asshole, the head pressing against the tight, unfamiliar opening.
Emma gasped, a sharp pain shooting through her as he began to force his way inside, stretching her delicate tissues to their limit.
It hurt, a searing, tearing pain that made her want to scream, but she bit down on her lip, tasting blood, determined to endure it, to prove her worth.
She reminded herself that she had begged for this, had offered herself up as his rapemeat, that she couldn't back down now, not even as her body screamed in protest. Instead. She panted like a bitch in heat desperate for his approval.
He began to truly fuck her, his strokes rough and relentless, each thrust a brutal assault on her virgin hole. He spanked her ass with each stroke, his hand landing with a sharp, stinging slap that made her skin burn, the welts rising quickly on her pale flesh.
She moaned, a low, guttural sound that was part pain, part pleasure, a whimper of submission that only fueled his frenzy, as he continued to pound into her ass, tearing her apart from the inside out.
Emma closed her eyes, surrendering completely to the moment, to the sensation of his cock tearing her apart, to the feeling of being utterly and completely defiled, reduced to nothing more than a hole for his pleasure.
His strokes grew more frantic, more violent, driving her closer and closer to the edge of consciousness. The pain was almost unbearable now, a searing, burning agony that threatened to overwhelm her, but she clung to the feeling of his cock inside her, the sensation of being utterly and completely his.
Just as she thought she couldn't take any more, he let out a guttural roar and thrust deep inside her, his body convulsing as he unloaded his seed into her ass, filling her with his essence.
A wave of heat washed over her, the knowledge that she could please him, that her rapeholes were good for something, triggered a powerful orgasm, her body clenching around his cock as she came, her mind blank, her senses overwhelmed by the raw, primal satisfaction of being used.
She collapsed beneath him, her body limp and lifeless, her consciousness fading in and out. He pulled out of her, leaving her lying on the floor, a broken and discarded toy.
His seed leaked from her ass, a sticky, shameful mess that mingled with the blood and tears that stained her skin, a visible reminder of her violation.
Her body was covered in bruises, a testament to his violence, to her willingness to endure any amount of pain for his approval. Her clothes were ripped and discarded, scattered around the room like the remnants of a battlefield, a symbol of her shattered innocence.
As she lay there, gasping for breath, struggling to regain consciousness, she heard him say, his voice cold and indifferent, devoid of any emotion.
"I'll take you in on a probationary basis, but anything less than 100% slut, and you are out the door."
And in that moment, despite the pain, despite the humiliation, despite the utter devastation of her body and soul, she felt a strange sense of triumph, a twisted sense of accomplishment.
She had pleased him, had earned his approval, had proven her worth as his personal plaything. She was his, and she would do anything to keep it that way, to maintain her position as his chosen slut.
She was ready to be his secretary, ready to embrace her new life of servitude and degradation, ready to become the perfect embodiment of his twisted desires. The headache and confusion were fully gone, replaced by a chilling sense of purpose.
