All These Roadworks introduction:
The following text is the opening pages of Bimbo Office , the new book by Nadia Nightside. If you’d like to read the full 103-page novella, you can buy it right now for only $7.99 USD in the ATR store! (Click here to view in store.)
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Happily slurping Miles’ cock behind the desk of his office, Delilah conveniently realized a Perfect Truth.
Her big, perfect young 36D tits spilled out of her blouse, leaking urgent hot milk all over her Master’s lap, so that she was constantly coating his manly length with her saliva, her milk, and licking up his precum and endless stream of cum. His Cock had no refractory period, no need for rest. Her body was tight, gorgeous, and completely owned by Him. She dressed for Him; strutted for Him; sucked for Him and Him alone.
Miles had The Cock, and The Cock was all that mattered to her.
These Perfect Truths revealed themselves to her fairly often when she sucked Miles off. This only made sense to her; he was her God, after all, and Gods were full of Truths.
And Cum. Her God filled her with Truth and especially cum all the time. Glorious, sticky, warm, yummy cum that made her cum and drilled all her spare braincells to bits until she was a brainless babbling bimbo babe who wasn’t good for anything but fucking, sucking, and serving.
Just like she liked it.
The Perfect Truth she realized then, on her knees in her Master’s office, was this:
There’s dick, which was kind of lame, and then there’s Cock—which is mind-blowing, important, and necessary for happiness.
Only her boss Miles had Cock.
And Delilah didn’t a fuck about dick her whole life; she hadn’t even hardly had a boyfriend.
But now? Now, she Lived for Cock…and that meant she lived for her Master.
She happily sucked up and then back down, moaning and urging her leaking tits all over his thighs, realizing that this was her salary now. That cumshots down her throat were bonuses. That her wages were basically just pretty clothes and jewelry to wear so she would be fucked more.
Her tight young body urged against his knees, heavy tits sliding into muscular man thighs, as she willingly choked herself harder on his Cock. She needed him to understand just how badly she needed him, needed the Cock—how badly she needed to serve.
It hadn’t always been this way. In fact, just a week ago, her life had been much different…but Delilah was delighted that it had come to this.
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Delilah wasn’t sure how it had come to this but she was mad as hell about it. Not for the first time, she stood dumbstruck in a pair of tall heels that she was barely comfortable in, making copies.
Ivy League educated. Interned for years. Expert in web campaigning. Reads a new political strategy book every week. Somehow—here. Making copies for pretty much her worst enemy.
Somehow, despite all her terribly hard work for nearly a year of her life, she had been somehow positioned as the “office manager”—a role which meant in this particularly small office she was a glorified secretary—for a man she absolutely loathed.
And by “loathed” she meant all kinds of things—hated, despised, held in complete contempt, would prefer to murder, and so on. She held regular fantasies about his death. Most of them involved stampedes by various zoo animals.
In fact, Miles Abram was pretty much the definition of a man she hated. A chauvinist bully who treated other people in his life like disposable objects and somehow got away with it all because he was just…somehow…lucky! It drove her insane.
To top it all off—he had her job somehow. After a virulent campaign fraught with drama, he was the councilman for St. Gilbert’s 3rd District.
That job by all rights was supposed to be hers. And somehow, here she was, in front of the copying machine and making fliers for some town meeting that he wouldn’t even bothering showing up for.
That Delilah should have his job was no idle exaggeration. Being the campaign manager for Barbara Clayton—a progressive female candidate who had won the nomination, who had all but won the office—Delilah had worked her tail off for a year. She canvassed, she made phone calls, she organized polls and managed interns and arranged interviews. She had done everything.
When Barbara dropped out suddenly a mere three weeks before the date of the vote, citing a sudden illness, she should have by all rights thrown all her support Delilah’s way.
And Delilah was a shoo-in as a candidate as well. She was educated, with a graduate’s degree in Political Science from Berkeley. She was friendly, with a famously good rapport with the press and local communities. And she was good-looking to boot, with the kind of body that showed she tried and the kind of face that was pretty but didn’t put people off from being too severe or that implied that she was an airhead.
Sophisticated, smart, and looking both; she would have been a home run.
Instead—instead!—Miles Abram came back from some weird vacation in South America after missing more than half the campaign and insisted to Barbara that he’s the man for the job.
And even worse, Barbara listened! She loved the idea! She seemed to love Miles, actually—like, in an intimate fashion. Those long soulful looks. The way she giggled and played with her hair. The strange moaning sounds that Delilah had heard when Barbara visited Miles’s office (which used to be Barbara’s office).
The only reason Delilah adamantly refused to believe Barbara was romantically involved with him was that she knew to a certainty Barbara played solely for the other team—meaning she had seen Barbara hit on girls at bars when they had gone out with each other after long days of campaigning.
Now Delilah stood, dressed smartly in her last-day-of-work outfit, a modest and respectable brown skirted suit with a brief jacket and cream-colored button-up blouse, taking a breath at the copy machine and mentally preparing to enter Miles’s office.
“You going to do it or what?” Mona chided her.
Mona was their intern. The real secretary of the office, who barely even needed to have a job since Delilah and the industrious Bonnie—in the middle of rearranging their entire list of donors by gender, height, and weight for some weird Miles-related reason—were more than capable of handling every last part of the work the district needed.
Which was lucky, because it didn’t seem like Miles himself did any work outside of long cigar-smoking sessions with the other councilmen.
“Of course I am,” said Delilah. “I’m just preparing. It’s important to be prepared. To know arguments and—”
“Counter-arguments, yes. You said.”
Mona’s brief foray into interests of life outside of her phone receded and her attention snapped back, fingers shimmying along her screen. She played some game where you built a castle and a town and defended it from multi-colored walking rocks.
The only reason Mona had this job at all was because she planned to return to college come January when the semester rolled around again, and she wanted the PoliSci credit and the blip of political service on her CV. She didn’t care about St. Gilbert, or Miles, or Delilah, or anything really outside of mindlessly scrolling on her phone every day. She was young and blonde and very pretty and every day she put up with more and more from advances from Miles and his Overwhelming Cock.
Delilah paused. Hand on the knob. Her fingers slowly but urgently tugged at the hard roundness. A soft moan escape her plush lips.
That was funny.
Overwhelming…Cock?
Why had she…thought that? Why were her cheeks flushed all of a sudden?
Delilah pushed the thought aside—you know, like taking that Cock and just adjusting it to one side so You can moan His name like He likes—and opened the door, feeling suddenly weak.
This happened every time she stepped into the office. The sudden heat of her cheeks. The confusion. The heat between her legs—urgent, needy, empty heat, the kind of sopping wet heat that needed something hard and strong and thick to fill her up right away.
Animal heat.
Moaning heat.
Mindless, empty, bimbo-headed heat.
This wasn’t her first attempt at quitting.
The first was right after the inauguration—the same night, in fact. But she hadn’t been strong enough; her meek knocks at the door hadn’t been loud enough to break Miles from his revelry, and when she peeked inside she saw him clearly receiving a blowjob from some beautiful blonde.
The sounds stuck with her. The moans. She was getting off from sucking him. The way she practically whinnied, like a pleased horse gallivanting in the country.
By the strangest coincidence, the blonde wore the same exact dark blue skirt and blood-red heels that Barbara had been wearing. Delilah wanted to tell her about the amazing coincidence, but hadn’t been able to find her anywhere at the party.
The blowjob incident only solidified in Delilah’s mind that Miles wasn’t worth working for. All that labor for some pig who would receive oral sex where he worked? That’s not what Delilah went to six years of schooling for.
But as much as she hated to admit it, the incident stuck with her in all the wrong ways. A stronger woman might have stormed in, blown apart the entire “celebration,” demanded something—justice, a payoff to keep quiet, a transfer to a different posting, something! Instead, Delilah felt awash with the naked wet heat of the moment, even a bit, well…understanding.
Miles had accomplished something really hard; he had been elected! He was important now. Even if he didn’t deserve it…he had done it. Didn’t that deserve her respect? Shouldn’t she let this sleeping dog lie?
Going after him might hurt her career, after all. Nothing mattered to Delilah more than her career.
Of course, none of that explained the hot, vibrantly orgasmic dreams she had that night, dreaming of cheering on the girl sucking him off.
Or being the girl sucking him off.
Or begging to be the girl or even one of many girls sucking him off….
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