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When Alison arrived in Ciaran’s office on her first day, her white blouse was soaked with water, and Ciaran could clearly see the red fabric of her bra encasing her large, attractive fuckmelons.

It wasn’t a surprise to him. He had slipped Nikki in reception a $50 note to “accidentally” spill a glass of water on Alison when she arrived, and then spend so long ineffectually fussing over her mistake that Alison would have no time to fix herself – unless she wanted to be so late to her first meeting that it bordered on offensive. 

And her first meeting, of course, was with the head of Human Resources – Ciaran himself.

Her first words as she entered his office were, “I’m sorry,” and Ciaran thought that sounded like an excellent start to their relationship.

She was flustered, blushing, and she didn’t know what to do with her hands. Part of her wanted to keep them crossed across her chest, hiding her lewdly transparent wet blouse. Part wanted to extend her hand for a businesslike handshake. Part wanted to keep a hold on the bulging folder of documents she was clutching. In the end, she didn’t quite manage any of them, and the folder slipped from her hands, hitting the floor and scattering papers everywhere.

“Shit!” Alison swore, and then again, “I’m sorry!” She got down to her knees and began frantically gathering the papers.

Ciaran made no move to help her. He stayed seated behind his desk. He thought that a little time on her knees would also set a good precedent for their relationship. As she crawled around his office floor, he caught a look up her grey business skirt, and caught a glimpse of lacy red panties – matching her bra. He enjoyed the view, as he mused on exactly what kind of slut wore red lingerie to her first day at a new job.

When she had re-assembled her papers – blushing – he motioned to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit,” he said – not a request, a command, and Alison was too flustered to immediately note the difference. She did as she was told – and her body language immediately registered another level of alarm.

The chair she was sitting in was one of the new “ergonomic chairs” that Ciaran had procured for the company. He had claimed they would improve occupational health and safety by improving sitting posture – but the fact was that the chairs were a nightmare. He had been careful to see them distributed largely to the areas of the company were the majority of the staff were women.

For a start, they were a little lower than the average chair. Anyone sitting in them was at a noticeable height disadvantage to those around them – and in fact, in this chair, everything below Alison’s tits was out of Ciaran’s sight. If she were to pull the chair right up to his desk, her breasts would be resting directly on the desktop.

Secondly, the whole chair was angled subtly, so that staying in it was a constant struggle. The back angled forward, forcing the user to lean in to whatever task or conversation they were engaged in. 

And finally, the seat was “moulded to the human form” – which meant that there were two grooved depressions for the legs in the seat. This should have been comfy, but it wasn’t, for several reasons – first, that it forced the user to sit with their legs spread quite wide. Secondly, that the sculpting had two raised bumps, that would press directly against a woman’s cunt and anus while she was sitting in the chair. And thirdly, that the slope of the chair meant much of the woman’s weight was resting on that pussy-bump.

It was intensely demeaning – and yet no one in the company dared to argue with “good OH&S”, so the women of the firm had gotten used to the chairs.

Alison wasn’t used to it yet – but she soon would be. Ciaran loved the expression that crossed a woman’s face the first time she sat in one of his chairs, and felt the pressure against her vagina and anal sphincter.

“You’re Alison Tarrant,” said Ciaran, as Alison squirmed on the chair, trying in vain to get comfortable. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ciaran Boyd, manager of HR. It will be a pleasure to be working with you.”

“Thank you,” said Alison awkwardly, still distracted by the awful chair, and the way it was pressing against her cunt and ass.

“You must have had a difficult morning,” said Ciaran, smiling, and gesturing at her soaked blouse. “I suspected you might not have had time for a proper breakfast, so I arranged to have a little something ready for you.” He passed her a plate, with a white-bread ham and salad sandwich resting on it.

“Uh… thank you,” said Alison awkwardly. She had to put down her file on the desk to take the plate. She lifted it to her mouth and took a bite – and paused, her mouth full, her face making an odd expression.

Ciaran knew why she was pausing. She was tasting his cum. He had masturbated into the sandwich that morning, mixing his sperm with the mayonnaise. 

He had a lot of revenge planned for Alison, but he couldn’t resist starting off by humiliating her. He wanted to watch her swallow his cum, right in front of him. He was betting that she hadn’t sucked enough cocks in her frigid, feminist life to recognise the taste of semen, but even if she had, there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t start her first day on the job by accusing him of masturbating into a sandwich. She would sound ridiculous, shrill, paranoid.

With effort, she swallowed the sandwich in her mouth, and then tried to put the plate down. “I’m not really that hungry,” she said.

Ciaran smiled. “No, I insist, I went to particular trouble to have this ready for you. It would set a bad example to the women here to skip breakfast to meet a man’s timetable, wouldn’t it?”

Her face was unhappy, but she was trapped. She picked up the sandwich again. “I suppose,” she said, miserably. And Ciaran watched as she took another bite.

They sat in silence as Alison ate the sandwich – unknowingly swallowing every glob of Ciaran’s cum. He felt his cock harden as he watched her unwitting degradation. Alison was pretty – and Ciaran decided that she was even prettier when she was unhappy, and prettier still when she was swallowing his sperm.

“Need a drink?” he asked when she was done, and passed her a glass of water, which she drank quickly, eager to wash the taste out of her mouth.

The water was drugged, of course. Nothing extreme – just a little something to muddy her thoughts, make her stupider, slower, and more suggestible. If his plan proceeded the way he expected, he wouldn’t need drugs to influence her for long.

She was still squirming on the difficult seat. That was good. There was no escaping the cruel design of the chair, and wiggling would only have the effect of rubbing the bumps against her pussy and anus in a stimulating, masturbatory way. Some of the sluttier girls at the firm – Nikki in reception, for example – deliberately lifted their skirts before sitting on the chairs, to reduce the barriers between the bumps and their groins, and wiggled their way to a quiet, happy orgasm once or twice a day.

“Now, before we get started, I just need you to fill out the standard HR forms, to cover your liability in the office,” said Ciaran. “We’ll start with the medical.”

He passed her a few sheets of paper, and a pen. She started to fill out the form – and then stopped.

“Is this really the standard form here?” she asked.

“It is,” said Ciaran. And it was. He had greatly enjoyed introducing it, the year before.

“These questions are completely inappropriate!” she said. “They’re a complete invasion of privacy!”

“They’re ones that our lawyers assured us we needed,” said Ciaran. (This was a lie, but Alison didn’t need to know that.) “The form was very carefully designed – but if you think there’s a problem, I’m sure we can discuss that.” He laughed. “Look, you’re adding value already! But in the mean time, you *will* need to fill this out.”

She looked at him. He could tell she was deciding whether to fight about this. She was right – the form *was* humiliating and inappropriate. But again, is this how she wanted to start her time at the company?

There was a long, tense, moment – and then Alison blinked. She looked down at the form, blushed, and muttered, “Okay, then. But we’ll talk about this later.”

Ciaran watched as she answered the questions.

The first questions were standard – name, age, sex, gender, weight, height. But then came “bra size”. He watched her write in “36DD”, and wondered if he would get the chance to have her improve on that, if his plans worked out.

Then a series of questions on medical conditions, including if she was pregnant (no), lactating (no), and the date of her last period (a week ago). 

Then came the section she had balked at – “Sexual History”.

She blushed again, and paused – but continued.

Sexual preference? “Straight,” she wrote.

Have you ever been impregnated? “No.”

Have you ever been raped? “No.”

Any sexually transmissible diseases? “No.”

What birth control do you practice? “Pill – Velevit.”

Have you ever had your breasts or vulva surgically enhanced? “No.”

Date your vagina was last penetrated by a penis?

She paused again, and blushed, and looked up. She knew he was watching her. She knew this was going to go on a file somewhere. 

Once again, she decided not to fight. She wrote down a date – more than a year ago.

Date your mouth was last penetrated by a penis? Again, a year ago.

Date your anus was last penetrated by a penis? Never.

Date you last masturbated? Ciaran smiled as she wrote down yesterday’s date.

Date of last orgasm? Also yesterday.

Does any third-party possess pornographic images of you? If so, list names and contact details. 

She paused yet again.

“We need to know if you’re a potential image liability for the firm,” said Ciaran, by way of explanation.

She scowled, and wrote, “No. N/A” next to the question.

And then the last one – Please list all your sexual kinks / fetishes.

She wrote “N/A” again. That was a lie, Ciaran was sure – no one had no kinks – but it suited him to have her lie on the form. It would be more ammunition against her once the lie was exposed – and, after all, at the end of the form she was required to sign that all the information was true and correct, which she did.

Ciaran took the completed form from her, smiling. “Thank you,” he said. “Sorry for the embarrassment, but it really is necessary. Now, why don’t you tell me what your plan is for your culture review? I can’t wait to hear about it.”

And he settled back, and let Alison start to talk, and listened eagerly to all the things Alison was intending to achieve – which, if Ciaran’s plans came true, would be only the beginning of the failures and embarrassments that awaited Alison over the coming months.

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