That Colleague You Hate

This story contains a great deal of bullying, domination, submission and indefensible workplace sexism. There's also a few sexually explicit moments, and a small amount of bondage near the end. Reader discretion is advised; if these elements are likely to upset or offend, please give it a miss.

1. Monday

You step out of the lift and sigh. You can already hear his voice, braying about some achievement or other. Probably, you think bitterly, something achieved by someone else, but ascribed somehow to his own brilliance. There's a guy like him in every office in every country in the world: male, privileged, boastful, full of his own bullshit, and far better at navigating the boy's club of office politics than any other part of the job. And you've got another week of him stretching ahead of you like an Arctic winter.

You walk to the nearest free desk and take out your laptop, hoping to be left alone long enough for the coffee to kick in.

"There she is!" No such luck. He swaggers over, all stubble and sexism. "The office beauty. Gonna give me a morning kiss, cutie pie?"

"No thank you, Alex," you reply frigidly, wishing he could take a hint. "We can catch up later, but I need to run through some admin first."

"Whatever. Do you want to see a photo of my new car? It's got the latest rear cameras and the best sound system money can buy. I should know, I'm the one with all the money! Ha ha ha."

My goodness, you think, he's so annoying it's almost impressive. As if some sadistic god decided to mix together all the worst human characteristics and pour them into a bad suit. Well, quite a nice suit today, but that doesn't make up for the attitude.

"Half an hour, okay? I know we need to catch up on the client call, but I'm busy right now."

"Sure thing, sweet cheeks. Hey, would you mind picking up my pencil? It's rolled under your chair."

There's no way to refuse without seeming needlessly rude, so you bend over, and -

WHACK!

Predictably, he creeps up behind you and delivers a sharp smack on your arse, calibrated perfectly to be just hard enough to smart badly - there's sure to be a red handprint there now - without making enough noise to be noticeable to anyone else in the office.

"How dare you!" you whisper fiercely, reluctant to make a scene. "That is completely inappropriate."

"I know! Incorrigible, aren't I? That means you can't change me, baby."

"Yes, I know what it means."

"Really? Been reading some fancy books, have we? I'm soooo impreeessssed."

He looks you up and down, one eyebrow raised, obviously evaluating you.

"We try to run a smart office here, darling, so just a tip? Maybe ditch the trousers. Makes a bad impression, and I'm sure you don't want to miss out on a promotion for a silly reason like that. See you later, toots!"

As he walks away, you bite your lip, rub your bottom, and blush with frustration. You're going to be thinking about him in bed tonight.

2. Tuesday

The lift doors open and you peer out nervously. For reasons you're still trying to make sense of, you've decided to follow his advice and turn up in a skirt. But none of your colleagues have ever seen you wearing anything other than trousers, and you're worried about what they will say. And of course, what he will say.

You hurry to the nearest desk as stealthily as possible, hoping to gain a few minutes of respite before the garment is spotted. But of

course

, Alex has noticed you come in and is striding over, a gigantic shit-eating grin plastered across his (admittedly quite handsome) face.

"Who would have thought it?" he laughs. "She actually has legs."

"Yes, well, let's just leave it there, shall we?" You tug down the hem self-consciously. It's a much shorter skirt than you're used to. You went out last night to buy it and made what you now realise was a very, very bad decision. "I chose to bear in mind a colleague's professional advice about dress code going forwards and-"

"That's a lot of words to say you obeyed my instructions. I'm pleased."

He's ogling you quite blatantly now. It's grotesque behaviour, but a small part of you can't help enjoying the attention. And that word

obeyed

- you suppress a shiver.

"It's just a shame…" he adds. "Those frumpy flat shoes spoil the effect. Do something about them, won't you? And the skirt is still too long. We've got a meeting in 5 and I can see you're still getting ready, so be a good girl and bring me a cup of tea when you come in. See ya, toots."

He strides off and you blush, feeling a tingle somewhere deep inside. Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell him to fuck off? Do you like being ordered around like his personal maid? You

do

, don't you?

"Are you coming?" asks another, kinder colleague.

You're thinking about what it would feel like to obey him again. To walk into the meeting room, all eyes turning to look, surprised to see you in a skirt. And shocked when you trot obediently over like a good little servant girl and hand your colleague his cup of tea. How demeaning that would be. How

humiliating

.

"Just a minute," you reply. "I need to go to the kitchen."

3. Wednesday

You're in a rush today, and feel rather frazzled as you step out of the lift and hurry to your desk. There's an important team meeting this morning, and you're so concerned about what you plan to say that everything else has dropped out of your mind. Which might be a blessing, in some ways.

"Phwoar!"

There he is. What's he looking so pleased about? Oh, of course…

"Now

this

skirt is much better. Much more sexy leg on show! I approve. Good girl."

What were you thinking? Well, that's exactly the problem: you weren't thinking. You were operating on some sort of primal instinct to please and obey. The impossibly girlish pleated skirt you went out and bought last night barely covers your underwear. It isn't a mini skirt, or even a micro skirt. It could only be described as a nano skirt. You tug the hem down again, an action that is becoming second nature to you but totally fails to restore your dignity.

"Well, I appreciate the positive feed-"

"And heels! A big improvement."

Another purchase late last night. They're black Jimmy Choos and cost a small fortune. You can barely walk in them. He's nodding, but doesn't look completely satisfied.

"What are they, two inches?"

"More like three and a half!"

As uncomfortable as they are, you're conscious of the extra height. You're closer to his eyeline now, and you've always enjoyed how tall he is. Wait, you don't fancy him, do you?

"I think you can find something higher. Something that makes it really difficult for you to walk around, and puts you nicely on display. Find something that's at least five inches."

You already feel like you're on display. You always wear flats, and were shocked to discover this morning how much heels change your posture. They force you to stand in a particular male-pleasing way, tits and bum thrust out, and when you try to walk you can only totter about like a porn-fantasy secretary. You try to think of a response to his grotesquely sexist comments but he's already striding off to the meeting. You're going to be late! You trot off to the kitchen and grab his cup of tea as quickly as you can.

By the time you make it to the meeting room, all the other chairs are taken, so you hand him the tea - you hear whispers and giggles, but do your best to ignore them - and sit next to him. He's looking good today, confident and poised in a perfectly tailored suit, and you're getting the faintest hint of sweat from his morning workout. You try to catch his eye, flashing your biggest smile, but he's ignoring you. The director kicks off the meeting and you try to concentrate.

"I've lined up a new client," Alex says boastfully, when the director asks about new business. "Based out of China, but looking to invest heavily in marketing to our key demos. We've got a kick-off call this afternoon, and I've planned out a campaign focusing on their new range of products."

He shares his laptop screen through the projector, and you're shocked to see the proposal document you ran past him yesterday afternoon to check for typos. The only difference is that your name has been replaced by his.

"Hold on, sir-"

You're speaking to the director, but the room assumes you're addressing Alex, and laughs at your deference. And he takes the opportunity to interrupt.

"Honestly, sweetheart, there's no need to call me sir!"

As he says this, and covered by the loud gale of laugher that greets it, he reaches under the table and puts his hand in your lap, and slips two fingers inside your panties. You gasp, speechless.

"It's kind of you to contribute, darling, but men are speaking," he continues, smirking. "So why don't you keep nice and quiet while I discuss something that's actually going to generate some revenue, okay? We can't all spend our time polishing our nails and shopping for skirts."

You blush and try one last time to protest, but he starts stroking your clitoris and the rest of the meeting passes in a glorious blur.

4. Thursday

The lift doors open and you rush into the office as quickly as possible. Which isn't very quickly at all, thanks to your ludicrous get-up. It took you so long to get ready this morning that you're badly late.

A colleague looks up and begins to speak, then stops, open-mouthed, looking you up and down. You haven't got time to worry about that reaction, or how many other colleagues will react in the same way. You need to make it to the meeting.

You burst through the door to the director's office, an apology bursting from your lips… then dying, half-formed, when you see that Alex is in there too. Sitting calmly at the table, one leg crossed nonchalantly over the other, a smile playing across his lips. Nice lips. You'd like to -

"You know each other already, I think?" says the director. "I felt it would be worthwhile for the two of you to share this meeting, if you don't mind."

"Of course-" you begin, sitting down next to Alex, but he immediately interrupts. "Thank you, and of course she understands. We have ourselves a real team player, here."

"Well…" The director looks unconvinced. "I'm not quite sure about your dress sense lately, my dear. Can you explain this, er, ensemble?"

He glances at your tiny skirt, which today is accompanied by the tightest white shirt you could find, black fishnet stockings, and precarious 6-inch heels in glossy scarlet. You'd been looking forward to Alex seeing you like this, demeaning yourself willingly for his pleasure, and it hadn't even occurred to you how it would look in the meeting; you're seriously off your game lately. You feel and presumably look like a high-class prostitute. Or medium-class, maybe.

"It doesn't hurt to have a little feminine beauty in the office, director," he says smugly. "But you're right, there are limits. Tone it down please, sweetheart. The quality we're looking for is

demure

."

The injustice of this remark is so monstrous that you briefly can't think of a response. And as you sit there mutely with your mouth open and your eyes wide with outrage, the meeting moves on, and the moment is gone.

"In any case we have more important matters to discuss than clothing," says the director. "I scheduled this meeting in order to discuss reporting lines." He's avoiding your eye now, and you feel a premonition. Something is wrong.

"But I report to

you

, director," you say, conscious of how weak this sounds. Like a little girl complaining to teacher. You blush.

"Not any more. We're having a shake-up."

You look across at your colleague, to see how he's taking this. But he's just smiling enigmatically.

"I've been promoted," he explains. "I'm going to be running the department. You report to me now. I'm your boss."

Oh no. Oh god.

"But director-"

Your body jolts with shock as you feel his fingers under the table, creeping up your leg, delving under your skirt. The director, over at his desk, is none the wiser.

"Have you something to say, miss? Do you feel we have reached the wrong decision?"

You bite your lip, doing your best to focus, desperately trying to formulate a convincing answer. But your brain is flooded with pleasure and it's impossible to think.

"No? Then it's decided. He's your manager now, so do exactly what he tells you, and that includes clothing recommendations. Now get out there and win us that client."

5. Thursday night

The door of the pub opens and he walks in. And despite the shit he's been giving you all week, you can feel your heart rising with excitement.

He swaggers over, points to one of the taps - it's the most expensive craft beer they sell, inevitably - and then walks off to find a table without saying a word. A few minutes later you trot after him, carrying the drinks. The least he could have done is bought the first round, you think indignantly, especially now he's earning twice as much as you. He doesn't say thank you, and you feel, yet again, like a servant. And your mind drifts, picturing yourself as a dirndl-clad barwench, waiting hand and foot on the menfolk, demeaned and catcalled…

"Why did you want to meet me?" he asks, breaking in on your thoughts. "Now I'm your boss, I'm not sure it's appropriate for us to socialise outside of work. I don't want to be accused of misbehaviour by some ball-busting feminist in HR."

"It's not inappropriate for two colleagues to go for a drink and discuss tomorrow's presentation in a casual environment. Besides, I wanted to clear the air."

"Why does it need clearing? I'm perfectly happy with our working relationship. I tell you what to do, and you do it. And if this is all above board, why did you ask to meet here?"

There are half a dozen perfectly good pubs within walking distance of the office. But you suggested one near the

old

office. Where there's no danger, or at any rate less danger, of being seen by someone you know.

"It's a nice pub!"

There's a moment of silence, and you look at each other.

"Would you like to kiss me?" you ask.

"No. What I would like is to prepare for our presentation, you little slut. Try to keep your mind on the job."

"Sorry."

"Sorry what?"

"Sorry, sir."

"That's better. Anyway, you might as well know that I've changed the venue for the client meeting. We're going to present in the hotel over the road. It's more convenient."

"Good thinking, sir."

"I'm not interested in your opinion. Drink up and put on your coat. We need to practise the new presentation I've been working on."

Shamefaced, you follow him out of the pub and head over to the hotel, wondering why he's carrying a large duffel bag instead of his usual briefcase. Probably materials for the presentation, you suppose.

6. Friday

You wake up and immediately panic. Where are you? It's the morning of the presentation and you don't recognise the room you've been sleeping in.

And then you remember. You remember the night before and the items he had in that bag. You remember the rehearsals - detailed and exhaustive - that the two of you went through for today's presentation. The glasses of wine, the room service, the stern instructions obeyed instantly. It was the best night of your life, but you're paying for it now.

"Get up, sleepyhead," he says from the bathroom. "You've got lots of work to do."

You groan and roll out of bed, then walk to the mirror. You're still not used to seeing yourself dressed like this: lacy black underwear, stockings and suspenders, and a superfluous garter on one thigh. But he seems to like it, which is reason enough for you.

He walks past and gives you a firm spank on the bum.

"I said get on with it, wench! We've got less than an hour until they get here. I want you dressed in 20 minutes, then you can start work on the props."

"Dressed?" You start to panic again. "I didn't bring a change of clothes." Of course not. You didn't realise you'd be spending the night with him. Not that you're complaining.

"Remember what the director said? I choose your clothes from now on." He holds up an outfit in a dry-cleaning bag and your heart sinks.

It isn't easy, and it's worth noting that he does absolutely nothing to help other than style his hair and wolf-whistle you, but everything is ready by the time the clients walk in. Alex is in his element, laughing and joking and confidently welcoming them to the suite, while you wait obediently in the small conference room next door.

"I thought we could create a custom ad campaign for your security products," he's telling them as they get closer. "I'd like us to grab customers' attention with eye-catching images themed around peril… and of course it never hurts to add a little sex appeal, am I right? Allow me to introduce my lovely underling, whom you need only refer to as Miss S!"

They walk in, and the clients stop in their tracks, transfixed by the sight in front of them. You try to smile and play along, but can't help blushing.

The outfit he selected for you is a French maid's uniform in black latex and white lace, with matching choker and heels. The skirt is shockingly short, the top demeaningly low-cut, and the whole ensemble so blatantly objectifying that you're expecting the clients to walk out. But they don't.

"As you can see, Miss S has been interrupted in the course of her duties cleaning my house, and she has been kidnapped by villains! If only she had thought to use one of your excellent security products. Don't you feel stupid, S?"

"Ymph mn dn, phnr," you reply dutifully, struggling to make yourself understood through the large red ballgag in your mouth.

Because he didn't think the slutty clothes were sufficiently humiliating. Oh, no. He insisted that you should be comprehensively bound and gagged as well. Your wrists are tied tightly together behind your back, your ankles and knees are securely lashed together, and there's a snug harness of rope above, below and between your breasts, keeping your arms pinned in place and helping to ensure that everything is conveniently on display for the clients' pleasure. The clients are all men, incidentally, which is probably for the best. Oh, and you're on your knees, of course. Did I mention that?

"It's an appealing image, isn't it?" Alex laughs, while you squirm and mewl obligingly like the damsel in distress he instructed you to portray. "She's a lovely sight, and so obedient. She'll do anything I say, won't you?" You nod meekly, blushing with humiliation. It goes against all of your principles, but you're finding it weirdly hot being trussed up and displayed like this.

"I like the slogan," says one of the clients, laughing and pointing at the large banner above your head. It reads

BUY OUR PRODUCT OR THE BIMBO GETS IT!

"I think we'd like to sign up for the campaign, but I have to ask: do we get to keep her as part of the deal?"

Alex laughs. "I'm afraid not. She belongs to me. But I'll make you a deal: sign on the dotted line and I'll lend her to you for the weekend. And I think you'll be surprised by how well trained she is. Isn't that right, Miss S?"

He fixes you with a steely gaze, and you consider rebellion, before nodding once again. It's mortifying to admit, but you're incredibly turned on right now. Submitting to your master, humiliated and subdued. Tightly bound and gagged in front of strangers, reduced from a highly competent worker to pretty eye candy. He steps forward and lifts one breast out of your scanty top, then starts stroking your nipple as you begin to moan.

"Why don't we call that a full week?" he laughs. "You can see that S is keen for the weekend to get started."