All These Roadworks note: The following text is the first chapter of Office Slut Stepmom by Bimbo Blackwood. If you like what you read, you can find out what happens next by buying the whole book in the ATR store right now for only $7.99 USD! (Click here to view in store.)
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Office Slut Stepmom, Part 1
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Jolene’s POV
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“This is unfair! It’s discrimination!” I howl, slapping my salad against the table so that it scatters all over. “You can’t treat me like this—”
“See? This is what I’m talking about!” my stepson, Casey, insists.
“You can’t put me on a performance improvement plan. I won’t do it….” I switch from indignant to tearfully hurt in an instant, looking up at him with big, blue eyes. They always work on his father. They usually work on him, too. But from the way he’s glaring at me, I have a horrible feeling that maybe they won’t work this time. “It’s not fair….”
“Look, Jolene, I’m not doing this to be mean,” he says with a sigh. “You’ve come in late nearly every day. You’ve had several complaints from customers. You treat me like I’m your employee—and the last straw was you undermining me in the morning meeting. You humiliated me!”
“Well, you were being a know-it-all,” I whisper, pouting and pushing out my breasts as I start to clean up the mess I’ve made of the table.
“I’m your boss, and if you can’t act like it, then we’re done here.”
I see his eyes get stuck on my tits and internally smile as I push my skirted ass up a little higher.
“I’m really sorry,” I purr. “It won’t happen again.”
“You’re on a PIP, and this is your final warning.”
I can’t believe his nerve as he stalks off, leaving me to clean up alone. Usually, when I throw a fit, he takes care of it because I’m married to his dad, and he should respect me! Who cares if I’m sometimes a few minutes late or if I delegate some of my tasks to the other employees? Does it really matter who takes the calls or makes the coffee if I’m otherwise busy painting my nails or playing on my phone?
I think he’s just never gotten over that his dad married a hot young piece, and that his old mom got sad about it—and maybe he’s in a foul mood because he (probably) isn’t getting any either. It doesn’t help that we’re only a handful of years apart. I came into his life ten years ago when he was thirteen (and I was twenty), and yeah, it was kind of awkward being thrown into parenting a pubescent boy . . . and I’m sure I didn’t do the greatest job at it.
Apparently, now he thinks he’s a big man, a total hotshot, a head honcho, all because he’s in the process of fully taking over my husband’s company.
“I’ll call your father and tell!” I exclaim as I get back to my computer to find him waiting there, the ‘performance improvement plan’ course loaded up on the screen.
“I’ve already called him. He agrees this is needed.”
I swallow the big lump that forms in my throat. I haven’t been getting along very well with Frank lately, but I still can’t believe he’s letting his bratty son reprimand me like this. And it really stings that I’m sure I’ve said those exact words to Casey in the past.
“Whatever. I don’t need this job—” I start.
“Oh, but don’t you? Dad says he’s tired of you being useless at home and spending all his money. That’s why he made me hire you on, isn’t it?”
Real tears form in my eyes this time. How dare this little shit call my bluff?
I look around us, suddenly horrified that someone else from the office might be watching our humiliating exchange as Casey kicks out the chair and beckons for me to sit down. Luckily, there’s no one currently around, since most people leave the office around lunchtime (and shouldn’t I get credit for not being like them!?—it doesn’t matter that it’s only because I’m so vain and like to ensure I never gain an ounce….). I slink over in my high heels, smoothing down my pencil skirt as I sit down primly.
Whatever. It’s just a dumb remedial course, I tell myself as I blink rapidly at the screen. I once watched the man who now towers over me turn into a smelly recluse when his acne got too bad, watched him cry over girls snubbing him, watched him grow from a lanky teenager into a lean, tall, yet boring-looking young man. He’s got nothing on me.
Nothing except knowing that me and his dad are on thin ice….
“You’re really going to make me do this out in the open? What if a customer walks in?” I ask snottily.
“That won’t be a problem. I’m going to take over your shift for you.” He grabs a spare chair from nearby and wheels it over to my reception desk, sitting down beside me like it’s just another day at the office.
For some reason, that makes me flush brighter. Now, I’m going to be micromanaged and babysat by my own stepson! And everyone’s going to notice that the boss is having to take over my duties for me. I usually don’t care if other people notice my lack of work ethic, but this is completely embarrassing. They’ll all be coming back from lunch soon!
“If the course takes you too long to complete, I’ll hire a temp to fill your duties while we correct your performance and behavior,” Casey continues, sliding his chair closer to mine as he gestures for me to start.
I can smell his spicy cologne, and I cringe as his trousered knee brushes against my stockinged one. He looks more like his ugly mother than his father, I think meanly, taking in his dark eyes and thin lips, especially with that unpleasant scowl.
“That won’t be necessary, Casey,” I spit out, grabbing the mouse and beginning the dumb course.
It starts with directing me to put on headphones, and then it has me enter my name, my occupation, and a little blurb about why I think I was put on a PIP.
‘My stepson thinks I am underperforming at the company my HUSBAND owns,’ I type out, smirking to myself when Casey’s scowl deepens as he watches me write. ‘My stepson complains about little things, like how I dress or speak to him, even though I halfway raised him to adulthood. My stepson thinks I should behave as his slave: fetching coffee, taking down calls to the minute detail, and acknowledging customers with big fake smiles and cheerful greetings. He also whines when I’m a few minutes late, even though it doesn’t matter.’
The computer spins a loading screen after I submit my answer, and suddenly, I can’t concentrate on what Casey is doing beside me anymore. My eyes lock onto the swirling dots, going round and round and round.
Weirdly, it feels like I’m falling down-down-down. I can’t think straight. I try to blink but can’t. All I can do is stare at the dots, transfixed. A strange buzzing hums in my ears from the headphones.
“I tailored this course just for you, Jolene,” I hear him say from far, far away, very distantly and softly.
I don’t know what that means. And I don’t really care. The noise stops, and I shake my head as the strange feeling dissipates. Did I just feel disoriented and dizzy? It’s probably because I didn’t eat enough at lunch, I reason to myself, since I ruined my salad….
A questionnaire pops up on the screen, and my eyes widen at the weird questions. They seem like they’ve been generated to address the blurb I wrote about why I was taking the course.
A GOOD EMPLOYEE SHOULD ALWAYS SMILE – YES OR NO.
I try to click ‘no’ but there’s something in my brain that tells me it’s the wrong answer. Instead, I slowly click ‘yes’ and find myself blankly smiling at the screen as the headphones ding pleasantly in my ears.
“I got that one right,” I say smugly, before I blush and realize that it’s not really a ‘win’ at all—but more me performing like a trained seal at a circus for my stepson.
He doesn’t say anything as I move onto the next question.
A GOOD EMPLOYEE SHOULD CALL THEIR BOSS ‘SIR’ (AND NEVER ADDRESS THEM BY THEIR FIRST NAME) – YES OR NO.
God, that’s rich. I roll my eyes, still smiling, as I try to click ‘no’, but something in my brain knows that it’s the wrong answer, so I quickly click ‘yes’ instead.
“Okay, whatever, sir,” I say jokingly, warmth suffusing my cheeks as the headphones bling pleasantly again.
I don’t know why this feels so embarrassing to fill out in front of Casey. Maybe it’s just the steady way he’s watching me, like I’m his kid and have to do things exactly right, or I’ll get a scolding. It really shouldn’t matter . . . but it does, because he and his dad have all the power now. I don’t want to get fired by my stepson and yelled at by my husband. I don’t want to have to jump through hoops for either of them now that I’m no longer in charge (of Casey) or super young and cute (for Frank).
Something buzzes in my brain that keeps me from crying. It’s all going to be okay. I’ll just do it right for now, and ease myself out of trouble, so that I can go back to doing this dumb job with a bare minimum attitude. It’s not like being a secretary is fucking rocket science.
A GOOD EMPLOYEE SHOULD BE ON TIME – YES OR NO.
Deep in my heart, I know the answer to this one, so I quickly select ‘yes’; I do realize that I was playing it a little fast and loose by getting gourmet, low-fat coffee at the busy Rooster’s Brew every morning before I made it into the office. Drinking it there instead of here was a little extra, too. I smile brighter as the headphones bling, my embarrassment lessening slightly.
This isn’t so bad, I realize distantly. These are easy questions to answer, and soon it’ll all be over; things can go back to the way they were—I’ll just have to be a little more careful, is all.
The loading screen reappears after I submit the first set of questions. I halfway blank out again, transfixed on the little dots swirling around the screen. Office computers are SO slow, I think groggily, my eyelids growing heavy as I wait and wait for it to finish whatever it’s doing in there. The noise is back. I think it sounds like something. No, no. It’s definitely nothing. Just a rush of noise.
Right?
How strange.
I’m suddenly feeling tingling all over. My nipples are hard and pointy. And there’s a strange throbbing in between my legs, my thick thighs gently pulsating together as the thrum in my brain goes all the way down to my delicate, high-heeled feet.
The next set of questions suddenly appear. My eyes snap open as I take in the first one in shock.
A GOOD EMPLOYEE SHOULD ALWAYS BE AGREEABLE, NO MATTER HOW HUMILIATING THE REQUEST – YES OR NO.
The tips of my ears burn pink. What does this mean? I try to look at Casey, but I can’t even tell if he’s sitting beside me anymore. My eyes won’t leave the screen. I don’t know how to answer the question. Is it a trick question?
“No,” I try to mumble, but the word glurbles out of me like mush; my hand moves on its own, clicking the ‘yes’ box, and a dinging sound fills my ears, making me shiver in relief. “Got it—got it right,” I stammer weakly.
A GOOD EMPLOYEE WHO OTHERWISE DRESSES IN TIGHT SKIRTS AND LOW-CUT SHIRTS SHOULD BEHAVE LIKE AN OFFICE SLUT – YES OR NO.
My mind circles around the question. Ugh, why can’t I think straight? I feel so weird right now—almost like I’ve taken a shot of something. Something that burns all through me and makes me loosey-goosey. Something that makes me hot from head to toe. Something that makes my clit buzz and my pussy start to leak….
But I AM a good employee, aren’t I? So what if I like to dress up? I’ve always dressed up. I look best in tight skirts that show off my trim figure and bubble butt. I look best in low-cut shirts that show off my ample cleavage. It’s not a SLUTTY thing, though. It’s not.
Or is it?
I can’t really comprehend what an ‘office slut’ is anyway. All the answers seem to be ‘yes’, and so I click it, shivering as raw heat washes through me with the bling of the headphones.
“I’m doing s-so good,” I slur, smiling dopily at the computer screen. “Acing it….”
The next questions seem to all blur together ‘A GOOD EMPLOYEE TAKES PLEASURE FROM GOOD WORK’, ‘A GOOD EMPLOYEE MAKES SURE THEY FEEL PLEASURABLE AND GOOD’, ‘A GOOD EMPLOYEE MAKES SURE THEIR BOSS FEELS PLEASURABLE AND GOOD’.
I don’t even realize that with each ‘yes’ answer, my body is getting hotter and hotter. My nipples turn into two bulleted points, my panties sticking wetly to my engorged clit, my breathing going labored. I pant and moan as I begin to rub myself, through my skirt, my pussy gushing obscenely as the loading screen comes on again and sinks me down deep.
Mmm, this job makes me feel SO good, a shivering thought goes through me as I press my palm into my skirt-covered cunt and dry-hump myself to the brink of an orgasm.
I don’t even think about the fact that I’m seated at the very front of the office, at the reception desk, where anyone could walk in—customers or co-workers—and watch me behaving like a complete whore.
I don’t even remember that Casey could be watching over me.
I don’t think about anything at all, but the dizzying rush of pleasure that overcomes me as I keep rubbing and rubbing at myself, my thick thighs getting juicy as I edge myself closer and closer, my sheer stockings tearing as I rub my legs violently together. There’s a constant blinging in my ears. I’m doing this right. I’m a good employee. I’m acing the PIP. I’m doing everything right . . . I’m—I’m….
A sudden wetness explodes across my chin, my neck, my chest. It’s so warm and wet, sliding down my big breasts and soaking into the dark, lacy fabric of my bra. I keen as my fingers ram into my clit, mashing my skirt and panties against it as I reach ecstasy.
I howl as I climax, soaking my skirt and the chair underneath me. Suddenly, the blinging stops. All the noise in my ears stops. I blink at the screen, and it says: CONGRATULATIONS, YOU’VE FINISHED THE INTRODUCTION COURSE FOR YOUR PERFORMANCE IMPROVEMENT PLAN!
“What the fuck just happened?” I mutter groggily, pulling off my headphones and looking around in a daze.
There’s no one here but me. Wasn’t Casey just here? Or did he slip away at some point?
“Boss?” I whisper, before I realize that my chest is all wet, and that my chair is all wet, too.
I look down at my tits, seeing globby trails of slick fluids running down them. What the fuck? Did I drool all over myself? Hot shame roils through me as I dab at my chest with my fingers. It’s slimy and bleachy-smelling. It reeks like cum. My eyes widen into saucers as I whip my head from side to side. Did someone fucking EJACULATE on me?
There’s no one here. Did a customer come in? Why did Casey leave me here alone? And why is the space between my legs so wet and sore? Like it’s been rubbed into oblivion?
I couldn’t really have been fucked right here in my office chair, right?
No, no, I reason, realizing my panties and skirt are still perfectly in place.
Did I masturbate? The thought makes me want to shrivel up and die, thinking about how anyone and everyone might have seen me acting like a complete slut. I grab at the box of tissues on my desk and begin to wipe up the mystery fluid on my chest, my brain going haywire. I think someone came on me—but I can’t be sure. And I think I might’ve cum, too . . . there’s no other reason I’d be so wet and sore.
OH MY GOD, I’ve made a large, damp spot on my skirt! I realize in horror.
I get up and look down at my chair, realizing that there’s a big, greasy-looking spot left on it, too.
Tears leak down my cheeks as I desperately attempt to clean it up with the tissues. Christ, I’m SUCH A SLUT. I’ve never behaved like this in my entire life, but now I’ve just soiled my chair because apparently I can’t control my urges . . . in public. At my job. Where I work with my stepson.
“Is everything alright, Mrs. Campbell?”
I cringe and spin around to find Casey staring at me in shock.
“Did you piss yourself?” he asks, his nose wrinkling.
“No! Well, I—well, I don’t, uh—” I stammer, flailing my arms around as I toss the soiled tissues into my under-the-desk garbage can.
I can’t seem to get my thoughts straight. And I don’t actually know what I did or didn’t do. I look all sweaty and disheveled, my tits still glistening with wetness (and bits of tissue) and my skirt a mess.
“You need to go home. Immediately.”
My humiliation turns into pure dread. Does this mean I’m fired? I thought I’d done so well on the computer test for the PIP. How could everything have escalated this much? How could I have messed everything up so badly?
“Yes, sir,” I choke out, tears falling down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry, sir….”
Other employees start to mill out, hearing the commotion. Apparently, not everyone was out to lunch. I clutch my arms around myself, sobbing, as some of them gasp and snicker.
“I bet she’s drunk,” Lou, from finance, declares.
“She seems like the type,” a female intern agrees.
“We can discuss what happens next, later,” my boss tells me, sidling up close and grabbing my arm. “But you need to leave. Now.”
I stumble out of the front door as Casey pulls me along, confused and distraught. What the ever-loving-fuck happened to me? I know I can’t tell Frank, because he’s already sick-to-death of me, and this will only be another black mark upon our marriage.
I wasn’t drinking. I know that for sure. I hardly ever drink.
But why do I feel so hungover and strung out? I can barely remember taking the introductory course for my PIP on the computer. I can barely remember flashes of pleasure as I—as I what? Completed it? Completed myself?
My entire body flushes in shame as I drive myself home. I hardly ever masturbate. So why the hell would I do it at work, at my desk, in front of everyone? And if someone came on my tits, who the fuck was it?
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Want to know what happens next? You can get the whole story in the e-book edition of Office Slut Stepmom by Bimbo Blackwood, now available in the ATR store for only $7.99 USD! Your purchase will support the author and encourage them to keep creating new stories! (Click here to view in store.)
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