It had been six months since Cynthia’s after-hours office rape and impregnation, and even if everyone hadn’t already been aware she was preggers, her swollen belly and enlarged tits would have left them in no doubt.
She stood before the floor-to-ceiling window on the executive floor, her hand pressed against the cool glass, staring down at the city sprawled out beneath her. Her reflection stared back. Once she would have been looking at a young, confident, ambitious blonde feminist, dressed in an impeccable power suit and ready to take on the world.
Now what she saw was a joke. Her belly was bigger, and her tits had begun to swell, and as a result of both these things her clothes barely fit her. The buttons on her blouse strained against her chest, pleading for release.
And the worst part was that she knew it was her own fault.
She remembered the night it happened. It had been a Thursday, late, the office empty save for the janitor’s cart rattling down the hall. Julian had cornered her in her office. He had always been charming, a senior associate with a smile that promised advancement, but that night, his eyes had been predatory. He had been a little tipsy from post-work drinks, but not so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing. He simply didn’t care.
He hadn’t bothered with small talk. He’d simply said, “I think it’s long past time that I fucked you, bitch.” And when she’d opened her mouth to give a shocked retort, he’d slapped her across the face, and then spat on her, and then grabbed a handful of her blouse and pulled, tearing it open.
“What are you going to do, slut?” he’d said. “Scream?”
As soon as he said that, she knew she wouldn’t. She could see how it would go. Even if someone – such as the janitor – came running, and caught Julian mid-rape, he’d say that she’d led him on. He’d give extensive evidence of imaginary slutty behaviours she’d engaged in. And at that point, it wouldn’t matter who the company, or the police, believed. Her career would be over. She’d either be the slut who seduced men and then lied about them raping her, or she’d be the difficult bitch who made trouble with sexual assault claims.
And so she let it happen. She let him tear her clothes off her. She let him slap her again, and call her a whore, and bend her over her own desk, and shove his cock into her cunt.
And to her humiliation, she had been wet. She didn’t know why, but Julian had needed no additional lubrication to violate her pussy, and begin to fuck her violently, with no care for her consent or pleasure. Worse, it had felt good. She heard herself moaning like an animal.
And then the final humiliation: she orgasmed.
She orgasmed from rape.
Now, looking at the swollen fecund curve where her flat, toned stomach used to be, she knew. That orgasm had been the key. She knew it was silly, that it had no basis in biology, but she also knew it was the truth. Her orgasm was the reason she was pregnant. The spasms of her traitorous cunt, as it betrayed everything she believed, were what had carried Julian’s seed to her fertile womb.
She hated Julian for raping her – but she hated herself more for cumming. And this pregnancy was her punishment.
For days afterwards, she would piss on a pregnancy test every lunchtime in the toilets. As she waited for the test result to appear, she would begin to masturbate. She didn’t know why she was rubbing her pussy, but the urge was nearly overwhelming. She hated herself for this, too. It was perverse. She had been raised to see abortions as immoral, so if she was pregnant she would be forced to carry the baby to term. It would destroy her life. It would destroy her career. And she would have to say that she didn’t know who the father was – implying she had fucked so many men that any one of them could have knocked her up.
The words “rape baby” ran through her head again and again.
On the day she finally saw the pregnancy test deliver a positive result, indicating that she was, indeed, pregnant, she orgasmed immediately.
As soon as her pregnancy began to show, Julian spotted it. He knew that if she was going to report him, she already would have, so he wasted no time in drawing attention to her changing body.
“Putting on a bit of weight there, Cynthia,” he would say loudly. “Or are you in the family way?”
He started calling her fat, and commenting that she should diet whenever she ate something. He bought her a membership to a gym and presented it to her in front of the entire office as a joke.
He took pictures of her every day with his camera and put them up on a board in the breakroom, titled “Cynthia’s Weight Gain”, showing the growth in her belly, day by day.
Finally, he staged an “intervention” in her office, involving ten of her co-workers and HR, to address her “problematic eating” – and it was this appalling humiliation that made her finally break down in front of everyone and admit that she wasn’t fat, she was pregnant.
“Who’s the father?” asked Julian immediately, grinning.
“I don’t know,” wept Cynthia.
And just like that, she was the office slut, the whore who had apparently slept around with a dozen men and gotten knocked up by anonymous jizz.
She heard the rumours going around the office – all of them started by Julian.
“She drinks a lot, you know. She was probably drunk when she got knocked up.”
“I heard it happened at a ten-man gangbang.”
“I heard the father is her brother and she doesn’t want to say because it’s an incest baby.”
“I heard she turns tricks after hours at a brothel. For an extra three hundred dollars you can fuck her unprotected, and that’s how she got pregnant.”
The “Cynthia’s Weight Gain” board stayed up and became “Cynthia’s Baby Journey”. Julian added facts about how much weight she would likely gain, how big her breasts would get, and when her milk would come in.
The company, at least, would pay her maternity costs as part of her benefits package. But it meant that they got to choose her doctors. Julian arranged for her to see a male OB/GYN of his acquaintance – and also got HR to assign him as her “designated support person” for attending appointments. She could have objected and asked for someone else – but then she would have had to explain why she didn’t want Julian. So she was forced to accept it.
Before each gynaecological appointment, Julian would stop her in a car park or elevator and push her up against a wall or pillar, and kiss her, while he worked his hand into her panties and began to masturbate her. Once again, her traitorous cunt would juice up, and he would bring her to the brink of orgasm, and then edge her for a good ten minutes, denying her release.
Then he would force her to enter her appointment, and when she disrobed for the doctor – with Julian watching – the doctor would find her sexually aroused, with a dripping wet fuckhole. His expression made it clear that he thought she was a disgusting slut – and that opinion would be confirmed when his squeezing of her breasts and probing of her cunt brought her to a humiliating orgasm right in front of him.
Julian would photograph her during these appointments – her nude body, her swollen tits, her spread legs and her exposed cunt – with and without speculum. She suspected that he distributed these photos among the men at work for their enjoyment. Later, in the last months of her pregnancy, the photos began to appear on the “Cynthia’s Baby Journey” board, and by that stage her humiliation had progressed so far that no one seemed to take issue with nude photos of a co-worker appear in the breakroom.
At the office, Julian was the model of sympathetic support for her condition.
“Cynthia, let me carry that,” he would say, whenever he saw her carrying documents, or a laptop, or anything else that an executive might carry. And he would take them away from her. Sometimes they would end up where she had intended to carry them. Sometimes they would not, and when she asked about them he would imply that she was getting forgetful because of the hormonal changes of pregnancy.
Then it got worse. Julian began talking about “the stresses of pregnancy” and how the office should cooperate to “take some things off Cynthia’s plate”. Soon emails, communication and work was being pre-emptively diverted out of her inbox. She was no longer copied in on important discussions. Her opinions were no longer sought. Her name stopped turning up on organisational charts.
On one Monday she learned that the corner office, her personal sanctuary, was being repainted. She hadn’t asked for a repaint. It was the first she was hearing about it. But she could hardly work there while the painting happened – or for some time afterwards, due to the paint fumes – so in the meantime she was moved to a small desk in the open-plan office—right next to the coffee machine.
The demotion was gradual but total. First, it was answering phones. She was asked to take calls for the other executives, but never try to solve the problems those calls raised. That was far too stressful for a pregnant woman. She was to take messages only. And use a pleasant voice, and address the callers as “sir” or “ma’am”.
Then, she started getting calls from co-workers asking her to bring them coffee. She was right there, after all, and she didn’t have any other significant work on account of being pregnant. Soon she was running around on her high heels, delivering drinks and messages like a secretary.
She noted that men started calling her “sweetie” and “love” and “honey” and “sweet-cheeks”. It was like they’d forgotten that she was employed as an executive. Some of them patted her on the ass as she went by. More than once, when she delivered a coffee or a message, the recipient would respond with, “Good girl.”
And she deserved it. She knew she deserved it. Not just because she had let Julian rape her, and never told anyone . Not just because she had orgasmed during rape. But because to this day, whenever she thought about the shame of her pregnancy, and her demotion and objectification in the office, she found herself getting aroused.
She hated it. What kind of a disgusting slut would be aroused by this? Whatever kind of disgusting slut that she was, apparently.
When it became clear she was going to let men call her “honey” and tell her she was a good girl, Julian took it a little further. He started referring to her as “the breeder” and “the babymaker” – and it caught on. Nobody said it to her face, but she heard it in conversations that stopped as soon as she walked in, and whispered discussions around corners. On one occasion she was accidentally copied in on an executive email where someone in HR suggested that one of their co-workers “ask the babymaker to fetch me a cappuccino”.
Julian bought her a “birth training kit” and presented it to her in front of the entire office. To her humiliation, it was just a set of very thick dildos, each wider than the last, intended to stretch her cunt to prepare her for delivering her baby. She went bright red, and hid it away at home that night, but then to her horror the next day she was asked in an executive meeting to give an update on her pregnancy – including belly growth, breast size, milk production, and “birth training”. At that meeting, and at each subsequent meeting, she was forced to report on the size of her tits and the largest dildo she had managed to fuck herself with.
People started buying Cynthia other baby-themed presents – teddy bears, baby onesies, and even a pram. Julian insisted that Cynthia display them around her tiny workstation, and each such display reinforced the idea that Cynthia should be defined by her pregnancy. He bought her custom-made shirts that read “UNWED BABY FACTORY” and “YES, I WAS KNOCKED UP BY A STRANGER” and made her wear them to the office. He replaced her desk name plate – the last sign she was an executive – with a “joke” nameplate that read “CYNTHIA – BABYMAKER” – but the old name plate was never found afterwards, and she was forced to keep the new one.
Then came the quarterly board meeting, a high-stakes event where Cynthia had once presented the quarterly projections. She had tried to prepare them for this meeting, but Julian and other men kept taking the documents away from her and telling her to relax. Now, she sat in the back of the room, wearing a maternity dress that was so loose it felt slutty. Her breasts were heavy, aching with milk that had begun to come in weeks ago. They were swollen and sensitive, and so large she felt everyone must always be looking at them. Her hips had widened, and her cunt throbbed with a dull, heavy frequency that she couldn’t ignore.
Julian sat at the head of the table, his legs stretched out, looking more in charge than ever. He caught her eye and winked. He knew she was miserable, and he loved it.
The meeting was dragging on, the topic dry and uninteresting. The CEO was droning on about market expansion, discussing strategy and logistics. Cynthia fidgeted, her fingers tapping nervously on the table. She was hungry, and the ache in her breasts was becoming unbearable. She shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position, but every movement only made the pressure worse.
And the truth was, pregnancy did make it difficult to think. She didn’t feel nearly as smart or intelligent as she once had. Her body was diverting resources from her brain to her womb, and her cunt, and her tits, and it left her blushing at her own perceived stupidity.
Suddenly, Julian interrupted.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice smooth and commanding, “I think we can all agree that our company needs to be more progressive. We need to adapt to the changing needs of our workforce. Specifically, the needs of our future workforce.”
The room went quiet. Cynthia looked up, confused. Where was he going with this?
“Studies show,” Julian continued, his eyes lingering on Cynthia, “that in an optimal work environment, nursing mothers should be able to express milk freely. It increases productivity. It reduces stress. It is a natural, healthy function that should not be hidden away in bathrooms.”
The CEO nodded slowly. “Interesting point, Julian. How do you propose we implement that?”
Julian smiled. “Simple. Cynthia has been working incredibly hard to prepare for the arrival of the baby. She’s been drinking plenty of water. She’s been resting. She’s ready.”
The room turned to look at her. Cynthia’s face burned. “Julian… I can’t…” she sputtered.
“Don’t be shy, Cynthia,” he said, his voice dripping with feigned sympathy. “It’s time. Show them what your body can do. Show them that a woman in this office can be both professional and maternal. There’s no shame in it. We’re all men here. We understand.”
He gestured to the centre of the table, a spot cleared for the presentation. “Why don’t you come up here? Put the data aside for a moment. Just… express yourself.”
Cynthia wanted to die. She wanted to crawl under the table and disappear. But she couldn’t. She stood up, her legs shaking. She walked to the front of the room, the eyes of twenty men fixed on her. She felt like a specimen in a jar. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and utterly degraded.
She stood in front of the large whiteboard. The silence was deafening. She could hear her own heartbeat, loud and thumping in her ears. She looked at Julian, who was watching her with a hungry expression. He wasn’t just doing this for the company; he was doing this to humiliate her. He wanted to see her tits, wanted to see her milk, wanted to reduce her to nothing more than a leaking vessel.
Slowly, her hands moved to the buttons of her blouse. Her fingers trembled. With a shaking breath, she undid the top button, then the next. The fabric parted, revealing the swell of her breasts encased in a simple white bra. The fabric was strained tight against her heavy load, the outline of her areolae visible through the cotton.
A few men shifted in their seats. Some coughed. Some stared openly. The air in the room seemed to thicken with tension and curiosity.
Cynthia reached around her back to unhook her bra. The metal clasp snapped open with a soft click. She pulled the straps down, and the cups fell away. Her breasts spilled out, heavy and full, glistening with the beginnings of milk. The room let out a collective gasp.
She looked down at herself. She had never felt so naked. She couldn’t believe that it had come to this, that she was exposing her udders to the company board.
Her breasts hung low, tipped with dark, hard nipples that were already leaking a thin, pearly bead of milk. It glistened in the overhead lights, a physical manifestation of her shame. She could feel the warmth of the liquid spreading over her skin, cooling as it trickled down.
She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. Then she wrapped her fingers around her left breast. She squeezed gently, trying to express the milk that was trapped inside.
To her humiliation, she made a small, slutty, involuntary moan as she felt the pressure release. A stream of white milk shot out, landing on the whiteboard with a wet splat.
The room was dead silent for a moment. Then, a low murmur rippled through the men.
She squeezed again, harder, forcing more milk to flow. It was a strange sensation, both painful and pleasurable. The ache in her breasts subsided, replaced by a wave of relief. She couldn’t help but notice that her nipples were hardening, her body responding to the attention and the humiliation. The shame was overwhelming, but beneath it, she felt a spark of arousal. She was being used, displayed, and worshipped in this moment, and her body was loving it.
She switched to her right breast, mimicking the motion she had used on her left. Another stream of milk arced through the air, landing near the first drop. She watched the white liquid mix with the dust on the board, a stark contrast to the corporate jargon written above.
Her hips bucked slightly as she milked herself. The movement was involuntary, a side effect of the intense stimulation. She felt her cunt clench, a dampness spreading between her legs. She was humiliated. She was being turned on by being humiliated. She hated herself for it.
She continued for a few more minutes, the sound of her squeezing and the wet splats filling the room. She felt like a cow, a beast of burden being milked for its precious cargo. Her mind drifted to her humiliation, her demotion, her objectification, her reduction to nothing more than a cunt, womb and tits.
Her career was over. Even after her baby, she would forever be the woman who had milked herself onto the whiteboard in front of a room full of men. No one would respect her now.
And nor should they.
She felt herself letting go of her career and her ambition. The truth was inescapable – she was going to be defined by her rape and impregnation for the rest of her life. She would have a baby and then, in all likelihood, someone would rape another baby into her. If she had let it happen once, she would surely let it happen again. In fact, her traitorous cunt would probably seek it out.
With that thought, she felt herself having a hands-free orgasm, right there in the boardroom, as she squeezed milk out of her tits for the entertainment of powerful men.
When she finally stopped, her breasts were sore and dripping. She looked up at the boardroom, her face flushed, her chest heaving. The men were watching her, some with lust in their eyes, others with a strange sense of respect. They had seen her at her most vulnerable, and they hadn’t looked away.
Julian stood up and clapped his hands. “Excellent, Cynthia,” he said, his voice dripping with praise. “That was… informative. And very productive. I think we can all agree that this is the new standard of professionalism. It shows real commitment to the company, and to your future.”
He walked over to her and gently took her hand. “You were amazing. Truly.”
Cynthia nodded dumbly. She couldn’t speak. She felt hollowed out, stripped of her dignity, but also strangely fulfilled. She looked down at her breasts, at the milk still glistening on her skin. She thought about the baby growing inside her, about the rapist who had started it all. She thought about her humiliation and the arousal that came with it.
She realised that she couldn’t fight it anymore. She had tried to hold on to her identity as an executive, as a powerful woman, but that life was gone. The pregnancy had taken it away, piece by piece. First the clothes, then the trust, then the work. Now, her body was on display, her functions were public, and her worth was reduced to her reproductive potential.
She looked at Julian, who was smiling at her with a mixture of satisfaction and possessiveness. She knew he would keep pushing. He would keep reminding her of her place. He would keep using her body to assert his dominance. And the worst part was, she knew she wouldn’t stop him. She knew she would let him.
As she walked back to her small desk in the open-plan office, surrounded by the hum of the copier and the chatter of her former subordinates, Cynthia felt a sense of peace settle over her. She sat down, the leather chair creaking under her weight. She placed her hand on her belly, feeling the hard, alien shape beneath her fingertips.
She was a breeder now. That was her nature. That was her purpose. And as she closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the office, she felt a strange, dark satisfaction. She was fulfilling her destiny, one humiliating act at a time. Her cunt was a vessel, her tits were a source of milk and pleasure, and her womb was a factory. And she was exactly where she belonged.
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