Read previous parts:
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven
“Undo the top two buttons of your shirt,” said Ciaran, once they were alone in his office.
“What? Why?” asked Alison.
“I thought you weren’t going to argue,” snapped Ciaran, scowling – and as he had hoped, the sudden change from “pleased” to “displeased” had quite an effect on Alison. She immediately undid the top two buttons of her blouse, exposing a wide and attractive expanse of cleavage.
“Good girl,” said Ciaran, and watched as the visual flush of pleasure swept across Alison’s face. He took a moment to stare pointedly at her tits. Alison needed to learn that people looking at her tits was normal, and now was a good time to start.
“First impressions are everything,” said Ciaran finally. “The men at Horrocks, Clinton & Quayle don’t want to hear about culture change. They’ll resist it. They’ll be hostile, aggressive. You need to stop those negative instincts from kicking in for long enough to get them to listen. And, as regressive as it is, they *will* listen to a pretty pair of tits, if you give them something to look at.”
Alison blushed. “That’s awful,” she said.
“But it will work,” said Ciaran. “Did you wear red panties?”
The sudden change of subject threw Alison, and she answered before she had time to think. “Yes,” she said, and then blushed an even deeper red.
“Good girl,” said Ciaran. “Show me.”
There was a pause now. Had Ciaran gone too far? Asked for too much too soon? Alison looked at him, and he looked back at her, not blinking.
Then, finally, her hands went to the hem of her skirt, and she lifted it.
Red panties. Lacy. Covering the enticing bulge of an aroused public mound. And visibly soaked through with cunt juices at the crotch.
“Good girl,” said Ciaran again. “Tomorrow you’ll wear pink. And a push-up bra.”
There was no explanation. No discussion. Ciaran moved on before Alison could argue or protest.
“I want you to let everyone see your panties in the presentation,” he said. “Bend over, lift your skirt, just for a second. It will make them shut up. They’re not going to boo you off the stage, because if you’ve shown them your panties once, who knows what else you’ll do? They’ll keep paying attention in the hopes of getting another flash.”
Alison was shaking her head in protest. “I can’t…” she said.
“You can’t do this without me,” he said – and the hypnotic voice in her mind echoed it. (“You can’t do this. You need a man.”) “Do you want to fuck up on your second day?” he asked.
“No…” Alison said, feebly.
“Then do as you’re told,” he told her sharply – and when she offered no further objection, he knew that she would.
“Actually, make it three buttons,” he added, motioning at her blouse, and delighting when she meekly undid another button. Two buttons had made her look sexy – appropriate for the workplace, just. The third button exposed the bottom of her bra, and made her look like a whore.
The meeting room contained 18 men, seated in chairs, waiting for Alison to arrive. Ciaran had picked out these men personally. They were members of a secret office chat group that Ciaran was a member of, that liked to discuss which women in the office were most fuckable and which the most bitchy. Every man in this room had taken a turn raping Ella Winslow, and the videos of her rape and degradation enjoyed regular reposts on their private forum.
When Alison walked into the room – with Ciaran behind her – all eyes were immediately on Alison’s tits. Her whorishly exposed cleavage drew the attention of every man. Alison didn’t realise until she reached the front of the room and turned to see her audience – and then she immediately blushed, and reached for the front of her blouse, desperate to re-button her clothes and cover herself. Her commitment to following Ciaran’s advice was washed away by the surge of immediate humiliation that came from a roomful of men looking at her like she was a fuckdoll.
But as she began buttoning her dress, she felt the surge of disappointment coming from the crowd of sullen, skeptical men, and something inside her panicked. The men weren’t pleased with her. They had liked her when she walked in, and now they didn’t. Blushing, she began to undo the button again.
Except that was worse. Now she was actually stripping in front of these men, in the office.
Not knowing what to do, she just let her hands fall to her sides – leaving her cleavage embarrassingly exposed to the men’s gaze.
She tried to pretend nothing was wrong, that she wasn’t standing in front of a roomful of men with a wet cunt and her blouse unbuttoned down to beneath her bra.
“Hi, everyone,” she said, weakly. “My name is Alison Tarrant, and I’m here to talk about workplace culture and respect.”
There was silence from the men. They stared at her tits, their body language hostile, disengaged.
“Now, your workplace here hasn’t done very well at respecting women,” said Alison, “and it’s important to have a workplace where everyone is safe, valued, and respected.”
She continued on, gamely. She distributed a folder of documents. (Ciaran had taken the liberty of adding a copy of Alison’s employee documentation to each folder, so that Alison was unaware she was giving each man a copy of her bra size and sexual history.)
She talked about appropriate workplace behaviours. She talked about avoiding demeaning nicknames. She talked about sexual harassment.
But it was obvious that nobody cared. The men weren’t even staring at her tits anymore. Three men up the back were talking amongst themselves, completely ignoring her.
Ciaran watched the expressions crossing her face – panic; shame; insecurity. Her mind was telling her “you can’t do it”. She was suddenly sure that she was a fraud and an imposter, unable to do the job she had come here to do. She needed a man. She needed a man’s advice.
But she had a man’s advice.
Trembling, she allowed her folder to drop from her hands, onto the floor of the room. Then she turned away from her audience, and bent at the waist to pick it up, legs slightly spread.
Her skirt rode up, and each man in the room got a perfect view of her juice-soaked red panties and her puffy, engorged pubic mound.
She definitely had their attention again.
She straightened, holding the folder, and turned around, blushing – and then her face went white.
Three of the men had their phones out, and they were filming her. They had just filmed her flashing them her pussy.
“What are you doing?” she asked, in a cold, horrified voice.
It was Dave Sanders who spoke. He had hosted a very enjoyable barbecue last summer where Ella had been gang-raped and then forced to fuck her own cunt to orgasm with a cooked sausage before eating it
“Just filming you, Alison,” he said. “I figured we’d want a copy of this to review, to make sure we’d fully taken in all the content.”
Alison started towards him. “Please, delete that, and put it away.”
“Why would we delete it?” he asked, feigning puzzlement. “You were just teaching us about respecting women.”
Alison dithered. Everyone knew she’d just shown them her cunt. But she didn’t want to admit that she’d done it.
“Please…” she tried again.
“Why?” countered Dave.
And she had no answer for that.
“I’ll upload it to the training intranet afterwards,” said Dave. “So the whole office can learn from it.”
Alison looked ready to cry. “Please don’t,” she begged.
“Why?” asked Dave again.
Alison bit her lip. She was stuck. She didn’t want to admit what she had done. But she didn’t want the video circulating, so everyone could see her showing the room her cunt and ass.
She looked to Ciaran for help. Ciaran offered none.
Finally, she cracked.
“Because you saw up my skirt when I bent over,” she said. “Okay? It’s inappropriate to have a video of that or distribute it. Please delete it.”
There was laughter throughout the room at this.
“Why did you show us your cunt if you didn’t want us to look?” asked a man on the other side of the room – Harry Bentham, who worked on the second floor.
“I didn’t mean to,” said Alison.
Dave snorted. “That’s a lie,” he said. “It was obviously deliberate. I’m not going to delete it if you’re just going to lie. In fact, I’m wondering if I should make a complaint about you lying.”
“No!” protested Alison. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? Please, just delete it.” She was desperate now. Dave was still recording. He had all of this on film.
“I tell you what,” said Dave. “I’ll delete it if you make up for your lie by answering three questions honestly. How does that sound?”
“Like what?” asked Alison.
“Three questions, and if you lie, I make a complaint. Got it?” asked Dave.
Alison had no recourse. “What do you want to know?” she said.
“First, did you intend to show us your cunt?” asked Dave.
“Yes,” said Alison, in a small voice.
“Full sentences, honey,” said Dave.
“Yes, I intended to show you my… “ – she paused. She wanted to say “ass” or “vagina”, but that wasn’t what Dave had asked. “My cunt.”
“Good girl,” said Dave. “Second question: why?”
She bit her lip again. Her eyes were watery, on the verge of tears. “I showed you my cunt because I wanted you to pay attention to me,” she said. Her voice was so quiet that Dave made her repeat it, louder.
The men laughed.
“Doing well,” said Dave. “Last question. It looked like your cunt was wet. Was your cunt wet, honey?”
“Yes,” said Alison. “My cunt was wet.”
“Good girl,” said Dave. And with that, he stopped filming, and turned his phone around, to show her that he was deleting the footage.
Alison sighed with relief – and then she looked around, and realised that the other two men were still filming. One was Harry Bentham. The other was Vijay Agarwal from IT.
“Stop that!” she protested. “You said you’d stop.”
“I said *I’d* stop,” said Dave. “I never said anything about them.”
There was more laughter.
“This isn’t fair!” protested Alison. “Stop! Come on!”
“I tell you what,” said Vijay, his phone still pointed at her. “I’ll stop if you take off your panties, lift up your skirt, and give us another look at that cunt you wanted to show us.”
“No!” said Alison.
There was more laughter.
“Do you want me to show management this video where you admit you showed us your cunt to get attention?” asked Vijay.
Alison looked at Ciaran again. “Ciaran, help!” she begged.
“Alison, you’ve behaved inappropriately,” said Ciaran. “If these men want to bring a complaint, I’d suggest they’re entitled to. If you can negotiate this to a compromise, I’d suggest you should.”
“But you told me to…” protested Alison.
“I didn’t tell you to be a slut, Alison,” said Ciaran. “I had no idea your pussy was wet. That’s disgusting. I can’t believe someone like you could be so slutty on work time.”
Alison was crying now – a single, sexy tear running down her face. She looked like she wanted to bolt – but the door to the meeting room was closed and Ciaran was standing in front of it.
“You promise you’ll delete it?” she said to Vijay.
“I promise,” said Vijay.
And so Alison reached under her skirt, and pulled her panties down her legs, letting them fall over her ankles, and kicking them free. Vijay put out his hand, and Alison picked up her panties and handed them to him.
“Now the skirt,” he said.
Slowly, Alison raised the hem of her skirt, until the whole room could see her pussy. Ciaran was delighted to see it was shaved and hairless – and visibly aroused. Her inner thighs were slick with her cunt juices, and her pussy lips were so engorged that they had parted naturally, giving everyone a look at her small pink clitoris and the wet, sticky entrance to her fucktunnel.
There were whistles now, and more laughter.
Pleasing men felt good. Alison was struggling with the knowledge of how *good* it felt to demean herself for the pleasure of these men.
Vijay threw up his hands in defeat, and showed her that he was deleting his video.
But that left Harry, who was still recording.
Alison turned to give him a good look at her pussy. “Is that enough for you?” she asked. Her face was bright red, and she was avoiding eye contact.
“One more thing,” said Harry. “I want you to say, ‘My name is Alison Tarrant, and I believe that girls deserve to be raped.’”
Ciaran saw Alison flinch. The words echoed the words in her head – the words from her hypnosis. Girls deserve to be raped.
And yet, what Harry was asking was a complete betrayal of everything she believed. A betrayal of her gender, a betrayal of her ideals.
But right now Harry was still filming her – filming her showing her naked pussy to a roomful of men.
“You promise?” she asked.
“I promise,” said Harry.
She blushed. “My name is Alison Tarrant, and I believe that girls deserve to be raped,” she said.
“Good girl,” said Harry – and made no sign of stopping his filming or deleting it.
Alison dropped the hem of her skirt, hiding her cunt. “Delete it,” she said.
“No,” said Harry. “I don’t think so.”
There was laughter.
“You promised!” protested Alison.
“Promises to slut-whores like you don’t count,” said Harry. “I think I’ll keep this. But if you’re very good and well-behaved, it will stay a little secret between the men in this room.”
Alison looked at Ciaran. “Make him delete it!” she begged.
“The phone is his personal property,” said Ciaran. “I can’t make him do anything.”
She turned back to Harry. “Please…” she whimpered.
Right now she was wondering what she would have to do to please Harry. Strip nude? Fuck him?
But Harry’s intention was both more merciful – and more cruel.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Our little secret, right? In fact, I think we need more training sessions like this. Twice weekly. You can come along, and keep us all focused on what you’re saying by showing us your cunt, and talk about something useful, and no one else needs to know.”
There was more laughter.
“In fact,” said Harry, “let’s all meet back here in two days, and you can give us a presentation on which women in the office are most rapeable. Does that sound good? Top 10 most rapeable women in the office?”
Alison made a small sob. There were tears running down her face now.
“No one said you could stop showing us your cunt, by the way,” said Harry, and Alison quickly clutched at her skirt, raising it back up to expose her twat again.
“Good girl,” said Harry. “Now say, ‘Yes sir, I’ll give you a presentation on which women in the office you should rape.’”
“Yes, sir,” sobbed Alison. “I’ll give you a presentation on which women in the office you should rape.”
Everyone laughed – and with that, the men rose, and began to file out of the meeting room.
No one had told Alison she could cover her pussy, so she kept her skirt raised until they had gone.
If you enjoyed this story, you’ll love A Woman’s Work – Stories of Workplace Degradation, available for only $3.99 USD in the store! Purchases allow me to continue writing new, free erotica! (Click here to view.)
3 thoughts on “Story: Workplace Culture, Part 8”