Every now and then, D or F or K would ask me out for a drink, and would take me back to my place and fuck me, and I found myself wanting to go - eager to please them; even though they began to take and use me more and more crudely, with less and less consideration for my pleasure or self respect, I was helpless to resist, overwhelmed by their strength - flattered by their desire. It became harder and harder to hide this - the fact that I responded with least restraint when they were crude and when they degraded me, even though I often cried softly afterwards, while they tidied themselves up and invariably left shortly after, with hardly a word.
I accepted it, and I never made any more than token complaints – often then only deliberately, somehow wanting to give them an excuse to be harsher still with me, expecting to be ignored, or forced. Somehow I was driven to make it clear that they were forcing me, that they were always forcing me, and that they always got their way – for their pleasure, and also, hard to admit, but truthfully, for mine.
Somehow, in the office, it began to seem that there was no alternative to letting it be perfectly obvious to a visiting client that D had put his hand right up my skirt while I was bent forward, serving coffee. I would sometimes make a weak, giggly protest, only to find myself pushed, pulled or otherwise forced to co-operate, my breasts moving softly as I helplessly co-operated, giving the best view I could of my cleavage to the poor visitor, who was often more embarrassed than I was.
Then, after a few weeks, it seemed impossible to protest in any more than a token way when F told a client, in front of me, that I would be happy to suck his cock while F took a long conference call in the other room – ' least I can do for you – it being so rude of me to interrupt our conversation like this'.
And so I found myself, alone with a stranger, dressed like a bimbo, blushing and trembling, wondering hopelessly whether there was a way out of this, knowing there wasn't – not if I wanted to keep my job, and realising with sudden insight that I really wanted this job, that I couldn't face losing the security it gave me, could no longer face the world on my own. I was not going to be a star, I was going to be a sexy secretary for my three bosses, and that this was just the beginning. And I knew I was going to allow it to happen to me, and my knees went weak, solving the problem of what to do next, as I sank unsteadily, blushingly, down in front of the stranger, and felt, with trembling hands, for his zipper.
I wanted to die, but instead I found myself softly, submissively taking the unfamiliar, semi-stiff cock into my mouth, and giving the best blow-job I knew how, unable to find any will to resist when, after a while, he took my wrists in his hands, and held them fast in one, while with the other he forced my head forward, fucking my throat deeply. And I felt myself moving for him, making myself as soft and receptive for his relentless cock, even as I began to panic that I would never breathe again.
And afterwards, I meekly cleaned him with my tongue, as he told me to, and smiled through my tears as he told me I was a "classy cocksucker", and next time he was in town he'd see if D would 'loan you out for a couple of nights". It was a compliment, after all.
That afternoon, I had a mini nervous breakdown. I hid myself in the cleaner's cupboard and sobbed for an hour or so. My makeup ran and I felt disgusting, dirty and humiliated. I had given myself to this firm and they were treating me like a whore. I was a whore. I had become a whore. Those years when I had resisted, argued, gone just as far as was necessary, but no more, with directors, photographers, agents – all a waste of time – I should have just fucked the first one that asked, let him do me in the ass, whatever – then maybe I would have got a part, become more than just an office whore, which it seemed was now my fate.
After a while, I cried myself out, cleaned my face up in the washroom, and went home. I didn't go back the next day, or the one after. Then it was the weekend. I was beginning to be a little confused. They hadn't rung me – the only other time I didn't go in – genuinely unwell, they called me at ten a.m. and bullied me into going in anyway. Why hadn't they called? Did they know? Were they letting me cool off? Didn't they want me back? Had I pissed the client off so much that they wanted me gone? Had they even noticed I wasn't there? Why did I care? I wasn't going back there – no way!
When they didn't call on Monday, I began to get the jitters. I couldn't help it; halfway through the morning, I suddenly knew I had to go in - had to make sure they still wanted me - had to have that job - that I would go crazy if they had simply washed their hands of me. All crazy thinking, I know - but that was my reality. The real world had ceased to be a possibility for me - the thought of not being part of their world had become unimaginably frightening.
I prepared myself as carefully as I ever had, choosing my skimpiest, most obvious outfit, waxing, plucking, moisturising, perfuming; desperately trying to push down the feelings of panic that threatened to overwhelm me.
It was really hard to go back into the office. At some level, I think I knew what I was letting myself in for - that I was going to be taken further than I already had been - but I didn't think about it at all - couldn't let myself; it took all my energy to look and act smart, calm and sexy, and that is what I did.
There was another woman at my desk - an older woman, frumpily dressed, but very efficient looking. She looked up, ready to smile, but then became colder, looked at me as if I must have the wrong place, had made a mistake, and was someone to be got rid of as soon as possible.
"Can I help you?"
I blushed - why was I so nervous? This was my place of work - she must be a temp - I should just breeze in and explain. Instead, I stammered and mumbled, weakly;
