A Slave to the Job

This was not what I expected when I applied for the job.

Cynthia - Ms. Preston, always, to me - stepped out of her office.

"The fern is brown again, Mr. Thompson," she said frostily.

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

Head down, I scuttled quickly across the office, watering can in hand, as the other 10 workers in the firm stared from their desks. Everybody watched. Everybody knew. I heard the whispers.

I was hers. Helplessly. Totally.

Some people say they are slaves to their job.

I really am.

The job had said "office plant maintenance technician, $10 an hour."

What could be wrong with that? $10 an hour to carry around a watering can and poke some fertilizer sticks in some crappy philodendrons a couple times a month? At least I wouldn't have to deal with customers asking me where the "any" key was on the computer keybad at my tech support job any more.

The first month had gone fine. I'd done my job and the plants seemed to be growing, despite drowning in the glare of the fluorescent lights above them. The paycheck came in - that's the important thing - and I was on my way.

Then Ms. Preston called me into her office. The lead attorney in the firm, she stood in front of her imposing oak desk, tapping the toe of her impossibly high heeled shoe. Her calves curved elegantly from the height.

"Mal is brown," she said.

"Who?" I asked.

"Mal," she said, gesturing to the fern standing in the corner of the office near the window.

Indeed, the fern had brown edges to its leaves.

Her icy blue eyes stared at me. She looked imposing in the blue suit. It matched her eyes, I thought. Some white lace seemed to accentuate her generous cleavage, and I tried not to stare.

"I'm very sorry," I said. "I'll get some water right now."

"You do that," she replied. "If Mal does not get healthy, there will be consequences."

I resisted the urge to yell back that it's a GODDAMN PLANT, only barely.

As I re-entered the room, she'd sat in her chair, long legs crossed. She looked impeccable, as always, blonde hair up in some sort of fancy roll, but no hair astray. Beautiful but remote.

"Mr. Thompson," she said. "I want you to take the can and crawl to the plant. If any water is spilled, there will be consequences."

I protested, but she reached into her files and grabbed my contract.

"Right here. All orders will be fulfilled without question on pain of employment termination and any complaints brought will result in forfeiture of pay," she read from the fourth page.

Apparently I should have read the contract closer.

They pay just enough that you can't argue the point. Better than most places around here, and I needed the money. After a brief mental debate about telling her to shove it, I obeyed. My brain was irrelevantly fascinated by the patterns of maroon and blue in the weave of the carpet as I crawled across it.

"That's it," she said throatily. "Now make Mal all nice and wet."

I glanced back at her. She crossed her legs the other way and I caught a glimpse of a white thong and pink flesh as she moved. The dry soil sucked the water quickly, and soon became moist and pliant again.

"Crawl to the desk, Mr. Thompson," she said. "And kneel next to the trash can, facing me."

This was getting weird, but not enough yet that I was going to hit the panic button.

I complied.

I heard the pock-pock-pock of high heels walking down the hallway toward her office. I moved to get up, but she glared at me.

"Stay," she said.

"Here's the file on the Russell case, Cynthia," said a voice. A pause. I felt a gaze on me. "You got a new one? They sure don't seem to stay very long."

Ms. Preston chuckled.

"Haven't found the right one, yet, I guess," she said. "Thank you, Renee."

Renee left and Ms. Preston walked to the door and shut it behind her.

"So, Mr. Thompson. Not a month into the job, and you've already managed to nearly kill my plant. I'm trying to think of a suitable punishment for not fulfilling your duties," she said. "One simple command, take care of the plants. Is that so much to ask?"

"No ma'am," I said. Then I mentally blinked.

Where had the "ma'am" come from? She was what, 10 years older than me at most? Mid 30s? I am not an age where I need to be calling people "ma'am."

"Very respectful, Mr. Thompson," she said. "Your proper mode of address will alleviate some consequences."

"Thank you, ma'am," I replied.

She sat in her chair and swiveled it to face me directly, giving me a view straight up her skirt. I saw her panties were slightly darker. She was turned on by all this?

My cock stirred slightly. I was worried about my job, yet getting aroused by her behavior.

"Were you looking at my cunt, Mr. Thompson?" she said.

Cunt. Vagina. Pussy. Yoni. Whatever she wanted to call it. It was moist and soft and I'd wanted to fuck her senseless, shake her from her remoteness, since the first day in the office.

And the blunt, one-syllable word had struck my cock like a firm handgrasp. I grew harder yet. I tried to cover my erection with my hands.

"Umm..." I said, wondering whether "yes" or "no" would get me in less trouble.

Words came tumbling out of my mouth I had not expected.

"You are a goddess, ma'am," I said. "How could I not look at your cunt when it is displayed so?"

A smile twitched the corners of her lips, and she reached into a drawer for something I couldn't see. She stood and walked behind me.

"On all fours, Mr. Thompson," she said.

I wasn't stupid. I've seen enough porn in my life I had an idea what was going on. But I couldn't believe it was happening to me. And if this was the scene, why wasn't I running? I am no sub.

Or so I thought. She soon taught me otherwise.

The first crack of the crop landed across the top of my buttocks. It felt like a line of fire, a burn. A second blow landed below that. The warmth began to spread. The shock of this happening at work, the adrenaline from the blows, and knowing it was this insanely gorgeous blonde punishing me was driving me - and my cock - to distraction.

As the blows rained across my ass, I was shaking from the force of my arousal. But after awhile, the need of the arousal faded and I hit a place of energy, of feeling, of drifting. I wanted to stay there. There was no pain, just a hyper-aware but dreamy feeling.

But the blows stopped. I heard clothing rustle and a few seconds later, she walked around and sat in front of me.

"Mr. Thompson," she said, spreading her legs. I could see what the rustle had been - her underwear was gone.

"Yes ma'am?"

"Lick my cunt."

"Yes ma'am."

With everything in me, I wanted to make her come.

Past girlfriends had told me I was particularly good with hands and tongue. She had not said to, but I crawled forward and knelt between her legs in the chair. My hands slid up the toned, fit calves, over the firm thighs, and then back down.

I gently removed her shoes and slid her stockings from her legs. I knelt, kissing her foot.

"Yes, kiss my foot," she said. "You're mine, now, you realize that?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm yours," I said as I took her big toe into my mouth. And I realized I was. In the space of a few moments, she'd conquered me, and I knew I wanted to serve her, to be hers. This - despite the outward appearances - felt right. Her arousal was my arousal. Her needs were my needs.

Her completion, mine.

The red-painted nail slid between my teeth and I sucked her toe like I was giving it a blowjob. I ran my teeth across the bottom, and she yelped in pleasure. I sucked each toe in succession, then switched feet.

My fingernails ran lightly up the inside of her calves, up her thighs, and then back down. She hissed in pleasure. I followed that by soft caresses. Then fingernails, harder.

My tongue made its way up her thighs and then buried itself in her snatch. Its warm wetness engulfed me, and I knew I was addicted to the smell, then and there. A slow, long lick from her dripping core to her clit brought a moan that was music to my ears. I stopped and focused on her clit, twiddling it with my tongue, smiling to myself as I felt the wetness around chin-level increase.

"Fuck, you're good," she said.

"Some have said so, ma'am," I said, coming up for a quick breath.

I slid my tongue into her core, then, licking its circumference and fucking her with my warm mouth.

Tongues may not go far, but when the nerves aren't far in, you don't have to.

Her hips began to buck on their own, moving up toward my face. I grabbed her hips and pulled her toward me, allowing me greater access.

I felt her clit, a small jellybean, hardening beneath my ministrations. Teeth bared, I moved forward and nipped the hard love button, and she shrieked. I licked circles around the clit, laving it with moisture. Then I bit again.

"Fuck," she groaned, reaching down and pulling my head closer to her crotch.

Her hands felt divine on my head, an odd feeling like a blessing from a priest. If so, her pussy juices were my communion wine.

"Mmmm," I said. "May I say you're gorgeous? You taste divine."

"You are not here ... to ... talk," she gasped, still not letting go of her self-control. But with a half-chuckle, she said, "But thank...you."

I took long, hard strokes with my tongue up and down her slit, and she writhed along with me.

"Put your fingers in me," she demanded. "Finger-fuck me. Make me come."

I did as she commanded. Two fingers in her hot, warm channel, pistoning in and out, my mouth still fastened to the top of her slit, tongue dancing with her sensitive clit. I felt her tense in her nearing orgasm, and I only wanted to send her over the top. Sliding my fingers in, I slid my pink finger down and rubbed her perineum, teasing her asshole. She moaned louder and when I arched my fingers up and my other down, that sent her over the edge. With a stifled scream, she came, gushing juices onto my fingers and mouth, hips arching up off the chair.

It was the most beautiful thing I'd seen in months.

She gasped for breath and then I saw the mask of efficiency and control slide into place. She stood, straightening her clothes, then reached and smoothed her stray hairs.

"Thank you, Mr. Thompson," she said. "I shall expect Mal to remain healthy. If he does, there will be rewards for you. If he does not, there will be punishment. If that pleases you, you may simply turn and go. Otherwise, I need to know now."

I thought briefly. We'd tasted freedom for a few moments - hers more overtly, mine in finding a place where I might be needed. Used.

"I'm yours, Ms. Preston," I said.

"That pleases me," she said.

The memories of that first day and the many days after flew through my mind as she called me into her office. I fucked her sometimes until we both screamed. Sometimes she would suck me but not allow me to come. It was beautiful madness, a sublime control.

I assumed the position as she drew her crop from the drawer.

"What did I say would happen if Mal didn't stay healthy?" she asked.

"Punishment, ma'am."

"Really, this has happened far too often lately."

"Oh?" I said innocently.

The first blow fell.