Joanie Joins the Worforce

I am committed to my one true love: computer hacking, and stopping hackers. After college I went to graduate school and got my PhD in computer science. My parents were proud of me, and I was proud of myself.

But after graduate school reality kicked in, and I had to get a job and make a living. I quickly got a job in New York City working at security at a major department store chain. Computer science, and in particular hacking and security, is a man's world, and I was the only woman in my department, working with four men. Two were around my age, and two were older. None were attractive. I, on the other hand, am good looking-hell, I'm downright pretty-and very sexy.

I instinctively tried to hide how sexy I am after my first few days on the job, when I realized this was my working world. We worked in intimate quarters. But the first three days, before I recalibrated my sartorial choices, made a lasting impression on these horny and lonely geeks.

Even once I was wearing my geek outfit (baggy pants and a sweatshirt) on a daily basis, I found I was in a sexist culture. The men would check out the interns and make comments about their legs, their breasts, and whether or not they "would kick them out of bed." I quickly discovered they never would kick any of them out of bed.

They complemented me on my perfume, sometimes my lipstick, and even once on the way I walked. My walk has a wiggle; it always has. They suggested that "I dress like a girl," or they would point to a secretary wearing tight fitting clothes with her boobs practically bursting out of her tight blouse, and her skirt riding up her thighs when she sat, and say to me, that THAT is how a woman like myself should cress.

I laughed off the comments, and pointed out that I was neither an intern, nor a secretary, and please treat me as a colleague. That would shut them up, but only until the next day. Sometimes one of them would put his arm around my waist, with a lame excuse such as moving me out of the way of a cart coming down the hall. He never did that with a man.

A few times a week one of the men would find an excuse to touch me, although most of the times not on the boobs; my ass however seemed to be fair game. When I was complemented, I got a pat - or two - on my ass. "Good job, Joanie (pats). You're really coming along (pats)."

After a few weeks we had a triumph and squashed an organized hacking attempt that might have caused the company to lose some big money. The leader of the pack, Bob, brought out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, opened and shared it in celebration. We each had a glass, but another co-worker, Sam, said it was a pity we had no ice. So we decided to quit for the day and to continue at a local bar.

Near the office building there was a watering hole that catered to bankers, lawyers, and beautiful women hoping to end up with the bankers or lawyers. As we sat around at a table drinking delicious cocktails, the men would make remarks about the pretty women there and how sexy some of them were, as if I were either a man too, or simply not there at all.

A typical remark would be, "Look at the melons on that one," for a woman with big boobs. Another one was "You see that? The babe that just walked by had an ass to die for."

I got annoyed. I told them I had to run an errand but would be back in half an hour. I left to hit a nearby women's clothing store before it closed for the day. It was Thursday, so the store was open until 8pm. I bought a sexy outfit, and returned wearing it. It was September, but very hot, and I took advantage of the end of summer sales. When I rejoined the group they did not at first realize it was I sitting down at their table.

"Whoa, Joanie," Bob said. "You look great!" He whistled, and so did the other three men.

I was wearing a mini skirt and a semi-transparent, diaphanous blouse, through which one could easily see my bra. This was a stylish way to dress anyway among the 20-somethings, but nevertheless a stark contrast with my usual work clothes, where I dressed as a geek. (Baggy pants and sweatshirts.) My bra was lacy and fairly see-through, but try as one might, one could not see my nipples, since the blouse had pockets at the right places, which doubled the fabric there.

Still, because of my transparent bra, it was an awful tease of a blouse, I knew. I went one step further and left the top two buttons unbuttoned, giving the men the potential to look down my blouse, should - for example - they stand above me while I was sitting.

Sam welcomed me back by getting me a cocktail, saying "You have some serious catching up to do; drink up!"

The men kept plying me with liquor. Since I am small and do not weigh much, and unfortunately - it's just biology - women get drunk faster than men. Even given all that, I get drunk easily, and sure enough, before long I was even drunker than they all were. Just so you know: Sober I am a good Catholic girl, and relatively moral and well behaved.

Drunk I am the opposite, sometimes becoming an exhibitionist or a slut, or both. And I was drunk. That's why I usually do not drink. I knew I was playing with fire here, but I stupidly thought I could handle it. My outfit was not a good start, however.

The men's remarks about the other women calmed down once I was back with them in my own sexy outfit. Looking at and ogling me, their very own Joanie who was sitting with them, replaced their fantasy daydreams about beautiful women who would never give them a second look. Good, I thought.

The other two men were Frank and Jerome. Jerome got up to go to the can, and awkwardly tried to look down my blouse. My outfit was low cut, and when I leaned forward you could see most if not my entire bra. My bra was lacy, but basically it was transparent. I leaned forward to give him a better look.

I said, "Like what you see?"

I expected Jerome to be embarrassed, but he was not, and he just said, "God, Joanie, you have great boobs. You're the hottest woman here." He has a really low voice; he could be a bass in a singing group if he could carry a tune. I found his voice sexy. Then he left to find the men's room.

For myself, I have a low pitched voice too. I sing alto, but it's a low alto. Unlike Jerome, I can in fact carry a tune. Men have told me my voice is so low it's sexy. I'm not sure I understand that, but it can only be good, right?

Once Jerome had left, Sam said, "Unfair, Joanie. Now we all want to see your boobs!"

I said, "You know, this is workplace harassment boys. Better watch yourselves."

Bob said, "Hey, we're kicking back in a bar. The workplace is a block away!"

I changed the subject, back to a creative detail in our hacking victory, and we all had a drink to that. But the men did not forget, and one by one they each went to use the men's room, each one getting a good look down my blouse as they got up to go. I did not mind; in fact I enjoyed the lusty attention. The alcohol running around my bloodstream was what allowed me to enjoy it, of course.

When Bob went, he pretended to stumble, and grabbed my shoulder to steady himself, "accidentally" knocking loose another button on my blouse. Now I had three buttons open, making it very easy to see down my blouse. You no longer had to be standing over me. I got aroused. I left the buttons like that.

The music got better, and as it got later, people began to dance. There was a little dancing area close to the bar. Jerome asked me to dance. I realized this was a mistake, but I love to dance, and this was a celebration after all, so I agreed. It helped that it was a fast dance.

I was so drunk I had lost nearly all my inhibitions, and I was singing along to the Four Tops. I was having fun.

I forgot that my moves on the dance floor are sexy in a highly suggestive way. Not so for the men, who barely know how to dance at all. They were comical trying to dance with me, but in a sweet, pathetic way. I did appreciate their efforts. As I said, I was enjoying myself.

I have a few dance moves where I lean forward at different times, and I only gradually became aware that when I did so I was giving Jerome a wide open view down my blouse; he could see all of my bra encased boobs. That explained his broad smile while we danced.

Next there was a slow dance. Jerome pulled me into him, and without thinking I took my usual slow dance position with my arms around his neck, and my groin up against his. I realized this was a mistake when I felt his penis start to grow and become big and hard. This was my co-worker getting an erection for me. Not good.

Fortunately, Bob cut in on Jerome. I tried to dance more properly with him, but it was as if he invoked British common law: A precedent had been established. Bob said, "You should dance with me as you did with Jerome. Don't you like me?"

Flustered, I said, "Yes of course, Bob. You're a great boss," and I put my arms around his neck, too, and let our groins touch as I had done with Jerome. I whispered in his ear, "It's just that I inadvertently gave Jerome an erection. I was embarrassed."

"Joanie, men like to get erections. It makes them feel alive. And you look so lovely tonight, I got an erection just from looking at you." As Bob said that he ground his groin into mine, and sure enough I felt his hard cock through our clothes.

"You know of course Joanie, that I'm your boss, and if you are nice to me, you will get ahead in our little world," Bob added.

Drunk as a skunk as I was, nevertheless alarm bells went off in my head. I wondered if he were saying if I put out for him, he would give me a raise or something? Boy, did I hope that is not what he meant!

After the dance we went to sit down, and the other two men wanted their turns dancing with me. I lied and said I was getting dizzy from the booze and it would be best for me just to sit still for a while. They were disappointed, but they let me be.

Bob's leg touched mine under the table. I moved my leg away, hoping it was an accidental touch. His leg moved with mine, and again his leg was touching mine. The skirt I had bought in my impulse to dress sexy was very short. My legs are not long, but they are shapely, and men seem to appreciate them when they are on display, as they were then.

I moved my leg away again, and his followed again. I gave up and let our legs touch. The men started to talk sports, and I was grateful, since now I could just tune out. Nobody expected me to contribute to a discussion of various football teams. Some day I really had to learn what fantasy football was. But there was no rush, as far as I was concerned.

After a discussion that turned heated at times, while I was lost in a daydream, I felt Bob's hand on my thigh. I looked at him in surprise, and he smiled at me and whispered, "It's good to be the boss." Remembering my fruitless attempts to avoid our legs touching, I did not even try with his hand. I let his hand stay there.

Of course, his hand did not stay there. It began slowly to move up my thigh. I was getting uncomfortable with this and began to squirm. This was a mistake, because as I squirmed to show my discomfort, Bob's hand suddenly jerked far up my thigh, under my skirt, and close to my panties. I held my legs even more tightly together.

By now we had all had, including me, a few more drinks. Everyone was drunk, and I was close to falling down drunk. I finally had to go the bathroom, which would also end Bob's hand creep, since it was now touching the edge of my panties. The next creep would clearly be inside them.

Getting up however the room began to spin. I was dizzy and I almost fell. Bob and Sam caught me in the nick of time, and in the process "accidentally" pushed my blouse so that it opened completely. Two buttons fell to the floor, and the others slipped out.

The blouse was no doubt a product of third world wage slave labor. Buttons were never well done on such clothes. Crappy workmanship was great for voyeurs, and also I guess for exhibitionists like myself. My bra-encased boobs were now on display to the men, and also to anyone else in the bar that was looking my way.

I was too drunk to bend over to look for the fallen buttons. I was also too drunk and too flustered to have the dexterity to button the rest, although I tried. Finally I gave up and just stood there with my boobs exposed. My boobs seemed to be pointing towards the men.

Sam offered to help me to the women's room and he pushed closed my blouse, and I grabbed it to keep it closed. He put his arm around me to help me to steady myself.

On the way to the bathroom he said, "Joanie, we are all desiring you. You look so amazingly hot tonight." He paused, thoughtfully, although it is unclear how thoughtful he could be in his drunken, lustful state. "Just an idea: Remove your bra when you're in the ladies room. I won't tell anyone, it will be our secret. Let's see if the men can tell!"

I did not reply, I just said, "Thank you for your help, Sam."

Sam said, "I'll wait for you here, and help you walk back." And he did.

I did my business, and while in the ladies I began to think about what Sam said. My old slutty nature emerged; it always seems to do so when I drink. So I giggled, and took off my bra, putting it in my purse. I completely buttoned up my blouse except of course for the two missing buttons. That meant three of the five buttons were closed, but that way my now naked boobs were not on display at least.

When I left the bathroom however I was curious to see if Sam would notice my boobs were now free to move about. I noticed they were certainly exercising that option, and jiggling around unless I was perfectly still. I was so drunk in order to stand perfectly still I had to hold the sink tightly with both hands.

The perfect placement of the pockets, covering my nipples when I wore my bra, were no longer perfectly placed for my boobs, now free-to-roam about the bar. There was one spot in the ladies' room where the light was glaringly bright. If I stood there, one could see my boobs, nipples and all, through my blouse. Fortunately, the bar itself was dimly lit. I was safe, but not very safe.

Sam either did not notice, or he was cool about it. I was still drunk, however, and fell into Sam. He felt my soft boob through my blouse and then he knew. Apparently he unbuttoned all the buttons except the middle one while he was steadying me. I was concentrating on not falling down, so I did not even notice.

When I returned to the table, I felt that I was in disarray. It was pretty easy for the men to see my boobs, nipples and all, if I simply moved or swayed a bit. It's hard to sit still like a statue when the world is spinning around you. They all got some mighty fine looks.

Frank flashed a cell phone picture, and even the small light from his iPhone allowed the camera to "see" through my blouse, revealing my boobs in his picture. Seeing what happened, Frank used his flashlight app, and lit up my boobs for the table.

Jerome is quick, and understood what Frank was doing. He used his flashlight app too, and with both lights on me, my blouse became essentially transparent. It was as if I were topless. I was humiliated, and my face turned bright red.

I asked Bob to put me in a cab; it was time for me to go home.

I should mention that part of my having a great body is that I am thin, but nevertheless I have an hourglass figure, although my boobs are a bit too big for it to be a perfect hourglass. However men, especially drunk and horny men, do not seem to mind that detail.

Bob held me and steadied me while he hailed a cab. He helped me into it, getting some healthy grabs of my boobs while doing so and undoing my remaining button, either intentionally or by accident. I was too drunk to be sure either way. But it was the last button, and so my blouse was now completely open. I was now on display both for him and for my taxi driver. The asshole.

I gave the driver my address and the cab sped away. I felt that I had a narrow escape.

The next day I had a bad hangover and called in sick. Since it was a Friday, this would give me the entire weekend to figure out what to do. I knew it would not be possible, after the time in the bar, to return to our formerly asexual work environment. I was truly angry with myself.

Checking my email and nursing my hangover, I saw a circular where the store was looking for volunteers to share their expertise with the government of the City of New York, as a type of goodwill gesture. This would be my perfect chance to escape the mess I had made for myself at the workplace! What luck.

Bob had to sign off on it. The first sign of trouble was when he suggested we go out to dinner and discuss it. I knew this was trouble, but I agreed. I desperately wanted the transfer. He took me to a romantic, fancy restaurant with low lighting. I dressed nicely of course, but tried to deemphasize anything sexy about my clothes.

I'm sure I still looked sexy, I just always do, I guess. But within the rubric of sexy, I was going for a minimum. I think I pulled it off, too. It had absolutely no effect on Bob. He was my boss and he was in heat, or so it appeared to me. I could have been wearing a sackcloth and ashes, and he would still think I was sexy, his mind filled with my displays from the previous night at the bar.

I was wearing a suit I had bought for the occasion. The skirt hugged my curves, but came almost down to my knees, which was long for me. Indeed, it was the longest skirt I owned. I wore a bra of course, an opaque blouse, and the suit jacket.

The jacket was well cut, and the jacket made clear my body had the curves of a woman: my breasts were emphasized by the piping of the jacket, and it came in tight at my tiny waist, and then flared out at the top of my hips. It revealed nothing, except that I had the shape of a woman. Or more precisely, I had the shape of a shapely woman.

First Bob tried liquor. To be polite I had a cocktail before the dinner. It was delicious, and I thanked Bob for it, raving about it. A second appeared before me. "There must be a mistake," I said, "I didn't order a second cocktail."

The waiter smiled, and Bob said, "Since you liked it, I got you another one."

I said, "Oh." I paused and then added, "Thank you, Bob. But as you saw in the bar, I don't handle alcohol as well as I should." I paused again. "But since it's here, I'll enjoy it, I assure you." I took a sip. Boy, it was good.

Bob ordered an expensive bottle of French red wine, to drink with our meal, and the waiter constantly refilled my glass. I was not aware of it, but by the end of the meal we had consumed almost two entire bottles of the wine. I did not even see the second bottle be uncorked.

Bob had rented a car, and he took me up to the Cloisters, reconstructed ancient buildings from France or Italy. Rockefeller had brought them over to New York, and they had a sweeping view of the Palisades across the river in New Jersey, or at least they did in the daytime. But the sun had already set.

It was a nice night, and we took a walk along the edge of the cliff, far above the Hudson River. The cool night air caressed my face. It was highly romantic. I was drunk of course, and the alcohol made me forget I was not at all sexually attracted to Bob, who still, even on this date (and that is what it was, I had figured out by now) dressed like a geek. And in addition, he was around 10 years older than I, and overweight with a beer belly.

But he did have one thing that sometimes is sexually alluring to a girl: He had power. More specifically, he was my boss, and he could let me do this thing for the city, or he could stop it. Power and domination were turn-ons for me, but only when I was drunk. I was drunk.

Drunk as I was, I realized all this as he put his arm around me, and gently crumpled me into him. I like being crumpled. It makes me feel vulnerable and feminine. I knew where this was going, so I was ready when he lifted my head to kiss me, and instead of pulling away, I let him kiss me.