Time slip
Esme had been a 'good girl' her whole life, and at 25 she still was, she had gone back to study at university recently.
Moving towns had been tough, leaving all her family and friends behind for three years even more so. But the town was both rural, but very busy because of the bustling student population.
She was a few weeks in when she got well and truly lost again, she thought a small road would lead to town on a quieter route, but she ended up coming to a very overgrown pavement and an extremely old tunnel.
She had seen no traffic for almost half an hour, so she figured she was well out of her way. She put her flashlight on her phone and made her way through the dark and cold tunnel.
She was almost at the end when she felt a bit dizzy and sick, she stumbled, placed her hand on the cold wall of the tunnel and just gulped cool breaths. When her vision cleared and her head pain eased somewhat, she stood and stumbled out of the tunnel. Her phone flickered and died, completely black, and would not come back on. She groaned, unsure how she would manage the tunnel back with no flashlight.
She came to a low building that looked old, but was full of bright light and lots of people working by the sound of it. Seemed odd that she could hear what sounded like typewriters clacking away. A woman and a man passed her in very retro sixties or seventies clothing and she paused, was there some kind of retro day going on just outside town. But she had never been here at all, it didn't look like any part of town she had seen. Though she guessed it could just be she hadn't had time to travel out this far to explore it yet.
She reached the low, large building, It looked very old, like an office building attached to a foundry once. She noticed a few signs that seemed odd and old in design, but perhaps they had a vintage style. She went to walk past but her legs took her unwillingly up to the front door. She sneezed, and suddenly looked down at herself, she wore smart black heels that were ridiculously tall, a short tartan pencil skirt that rested just a few inches above her knees and was far shorter than anything she would wear. A smart white shirt with a low-cut front and ruffled sleeve, a bow in her hair and old-fashioned nylon tights. She was stood there with her mouth hanging open, how the hell had that just happened?!
She tried to pull the hem of the skirt lower, feeling exposed, but a man in a tweed suit opened the front doors and yanked her in, telling her two minutes more and she would be late. He punched in a card for her and they were stood in a huge open plan office. Mostly women on typewriters clacked away as a few men stood talking around a corner desk at the front, smoking, every desk had an ashtray, and a low cloud of smoke permeated the room along with the smell of ink. She gagged, hating the smell of smoke.
It was clear by the hairstyles, what happened with her clothes, how people were dressed, and the lake of computers that she was dreaming about a sixties or seventies office. A few sad looking Christmas decorations sat around, as secretaries hustled to and fro and typists worked so fast it hurt her eyes. The clacking of their typewriters was so loud she grit her teeth.
Why the hell would she dream this?
Then she recalled a conversation with a lecturer, he was in his late seventies, soon to retire, and said how different office work had been in his youth. He told her how women had little to no rights, but some enjoyed the pats on the bum from executives, some happily 'took care' of their bosses needs as well as his paperwork.
Some didn't of course, but he told her of smoke filled office spaces, the ever prompt 'tea cart' and phenomenally over the top Christmas parties where often strippers would be in attendance for the men. She had scoffed at the thought, and at what her fellow women had to suffer through back then, glad that things were different now.
But a tiny part of her also wondered what it was like, to be a secretary who had her bum patted by any male workers who passed, to be tasked with her bosses' personal needs as well as his paperwork. Perhaps kneeling beneath the desk to suck on his cock to relieve his stress. Or bent over his desk and fucked as she held a hand over her mouth to keep quiet in the corner office.
She knew it was wrong to want that, and she fully believed workplaces had changed for the better. But here, in a dream she assumed, she wanted to indulge in the fantasy, filthy and wrong as it may be, and far from her usual wants and needs.
The man who had led her in told her to get to her desk, and she walked over to the corner without even thinking about it. A few typists smiled at her as she passed, and nodded. She got to an office through an open door, at the far end was a huge oak desk and a big window, lots of filing cabinets sat around a smaller desk just through a doorway to the other side of the big desk. A typewriter, and masses of paperwork sat atop the smaller desk.
She went over and sat down, already getting to work, then a loud man with a Scottish accent strolled in and she scrambled to stand on instinct. He was only a couple of inches taller than her, portly with a big tummy straining at his tailored suit. But he had a fairly kind face, clean shaven, and thick dark hair with a few bits of silver in it. Sharp green eyes pinned her in place as he stalked over, looking at the book in front of her as he passed behind her and patted her bubble butt, giving her a harsh squeeze that made her groan. He chuckled lowly and went to his desk, telling her to hurry or her work would be late.
She seemed to know what to do on instinct or memory in the dream, and even though she didn't stop work, she was still late. Bosses stormy face as he called her to his desk made her look at the floor and cross her hands behind her back. He told her off in a quiet, low voice, no shouting needed, and she could not look him in the eye.
Then he told her to lean over the desk, as he had only five minutes. She did, aware the office door was open a crack. He pulled up her skirt with a rough, proprietorial touch, and stroked her ass over her nylons and panties. She stayed still and quiet, hands gripping the desk and head low, ass out. He groped her as if it were his right, squeezing, stroking and fondling in a way that made her blush.
The first slap was a shock more than a pain, she bit her tongue so as not to yelp. He spanked her slow and hard, making her count each one with her cheeks burning red and her butt just as red. The pain was sharp and dull all at once, his huge hands practiced and his knowledge such that he knew the most painful places to spank. At the last one she let out a low whimper and he stroked her red raw bum. Pulling her skirt back down he told her to get back to work.
She pouted, usually after that she would take care of him, but he called in a typist and soon she was forced to listen to the lewd, wet sucks and coughs as she worked, sucking his cock deep as she could. The typist wiping her mouth with a wince as she left soon after. She felt jealousy, that had been her load of cum to swallow, and some little bit of skirt had taken it instead. She frowned t her lewd thoughts, and worked harder.
She had no idea how this dream worked but she blinked and was walking into the office for a new morning. She stopped the tea trolley to buy herself a piping hot tea and to have a coffee ready on bosses' desk for him, she had picked up his laundered suit too. He smiled when he walked in, no thank you, but the smile was enough to please her.
