When Alison got into the office the next morning, she found her office door locked. Ciaran had let her ride the train alone, and gone in early by car. He wanted to reinforce a pattern of increasing submission for Alison, and he thought it would be a fine tradition for her to start coming to him each morning for permission to access her office.
Sure enough, she arrived at his office – a full half hour after he had expected her – blushing and confused. “Excuse me, Ciaran,” she said. “Do you know what’s going on with my office?”
“You left it unsecured last night,” said Ciaran. “Anyone could have gone in and read your documents. I locked it up. I’ll go with you in a minute and unlock it and let you in.” He coughed. “Do you want to explain why you’re late?”
In point of fact, Alison was a contractor, and it was entirely up to her to set her hours in the office, but as Ciaran had hoped, he had caught her on the back foot, and rather than declaring her independence, she instinctively apologised.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I overslept.” But she blushed as she said this, and he knew it wasn’t the whole story. Had she been late because she was masturbating? Possibly. It didn’t greatly matter, in the scheme of things. What mattered was setting the precedent that she was accountable to him for her time, and would apologise if she didn’t meet his expectations.
“See that it doesn’t happen again,” said Ciaran. “Now, do you have anything to say about last night?”
Alison’s face went even brighter red. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“You sexually harassed me, Alison,” said Ciaran. “You masturbated in front of me, and then kissed me without my permission. And that’s after the disgustingly whorish display you put on in the meeting, and then an entire afternoon where you were apparently masturbating instead of working.”
Alison’s eyes welled up with tears. “I’m sorry!” she said. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
Ciaran stood, walked around his desk, and closed the door to his office. Then he shut the blinds on the glass panelling, giving them privacy.
“Give me your panties, Alison,” he said.
She looked at him, tearful eyes wide, not understanding.
He just waited, with his hand out. It was important that he didn’t explain. It was important that in her vulnerable, insecure state, she simply obeyed, even when the command was indefensible.
And to his delight, she did. Humiliated, embarrassed, she reached up under her skirt, and worked her panties down her legs, over her ankles, picked them up, and handed them to him.
Pink. Just as he had asked for. “Good girl,” he said, and watched her face flush with hypnotic pleasure at the knowledge she had pleased him.
“Tomorrow you wear a G-string,” he told her, and she just nodded.
He went back to his desk. “I think I can protect you, Alison,” said Ciaran. “I know how humiliating it would be for you if this got out. Your life would be ruined. A sexual harassment consultant who harasses people herself? The jokes write themselves.”
Alison’s tears, momentarily suspended by the shock of being asked to remove her panties, now returned. “Please,” she begged. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happening.”
“First thing’s first,” he said. “I can only control this if you admit to it straight away. Otherwise there would have to be an investigation – people asking questions, talking to your previous employers, looking at your internet history, that kind of thing.”
She sobbed. Ciaran thought that she looked very pretty when she was crying.
“Here,” he said. “I’ve written up a document describing what happened yesterday. It says that you spent the afternoon masturbating when you were supposed to be working, that you lured me into your office and showed me your pussy and masturbated in front of me despite my disgust, and that you forced yourself on me with a kiss. And then that you subsequently walked through the office with your cunt bare and showed it to me again in *my* office. Just sign at the bottom there.”
She looked at the document, trying to focus on it through her tears. She knew that wasn’t quite what had happened. She didn’t think she had been as proactive as Ciaran said. Hadn’t Ciaran been the one to suggest taking away her skirt? But she had been so horny yesterday, and there was all that missing time that she couldn’t remember.
Dumb big-titted baby, said her mind. Perverted little slut. You can’t do it. You need a man.
And Ciaran was offering to help her.
She signed her name to the admission.
“Good girl,” said Ciaran again, and any doubts Alison had that she was doing the right thing were temporarily swept away by the rush of pleasure those words gave her.
“Am I going to be okay now?” she asked.
“Not quite,” said Ciaran. “Now we just need to make the matter go away entirely – and protect you against any further slip-ups. You said you don’t know why you’re such a slut, right?”
Alison nodded – implicitly accepting Ciaran’s suggestion that she was a slut. (After all, it lined up with what her brain was telling her – perverted little slut.)
“Do you think it’s possible that you have a sex addiction, Alison?” he asked. “A kind of… sex disability?”
“No…” she began to say, but Ciaran talked over the top of her.
“Because if you have a disability, then maybe what you did is excusable,” said Ciaran. “Maybe we need to make reasonable accommodation for you.”
She looked at him. She didn’t want to say she had a disability. But she understood what he was saying. He could make her… indiscretion… go away. He wouldn’t need to investigate.
“Maybe,” she said.
“If you claim a disability, you even get a little extra money from the company,” he told her. “I’ll get out the form.”
Falsely claiming that money would be fraud, Ciaran knew. It would be a criminal offence. Just a little extra leverage over the attractive bitch.
He put the form in front of her.
“Name of disability?” she asked, looking at the first field.
“Just write ‘woman’,” he told her. “It’s a placeholder until we work out what to call it.”
Something felt wrong to Alison, but she did as she was told.
“Symptoms?” she asked.
“Stupidity and confusion, right?” said Ciaran. “The way you described it to me? And sluttiness.”
Alison obediently wrote down what Ciaran was saying.
“Difficulty making decisions,” he continued. “Thinking with your cunt.”
She wrote those, too.
“And sign your name,” finished Ciaran.
“Good girl,” he said again.
He took the form from her and slid it into her desk. He couldn’t believe how easy it had been, to get her to claim that being a woman was a disability, with symptoms of stupidity and sluttiness. She couldn’t claim it was a joke – not when she would be receiving $50 a week in real money for having filed it. He could now destroy her whenever he chose – but he had a lot more to do with her first.
He pulled out a sandwich from his desk drawer and passed it to her.
“Now,” he said, “have some breakfast.”
And he watched as she raised the sandwich to her lips and had her first nourishing mouthful of his cum for the day.