Office Subjugation

Hey everyone, sorry for the delay (if you ever even see this). I have chapters ready to go out, but been having a lot of difficulty getting them reviewed/published on this site. Will look at other options to help with consistency, but for now it's just something to deal with. Anyway enjoy!

Chapter 6 - The Contract

Come Monday, someone new, almost unrecognizable, stood in Chloe's apartment. The girl rotated before a mirror, looking over her shoulder to examine her backside. Feet secured in long elegant heels, like on tip-toes. Legs tottering above, slightly unbalanced. Pale thighs, encased in sleek stockings - giving way to large, shapely globes, thin stretch of black fabric peeking from below, flowing up, nestled between her thick cheeks, completely enveloped, before emerging at the top to complete the thong. Garter belt above, straps attached to the stockings. The girl turned again, reviewing her front. The thin mesh of the thong barely covering her pubic area, her plump outer folds visible through the fabric, the sheer coverage almost exposing two of her biggest insecurities - her under-developed pubic hair, a shallow coverage, not even starting to grow in until much later in her teens, and her over-developed pussy, two big over-powering lips protruding and covering everything inside, allowing the smallest pink slit down the middle.

Her gaze moved upwards, her pale torso, the lace and underwire of her cup-less bra, offering her huge weighty breasts up perkily on their pedestals, them being their own pedestals for her cute, delicately pink little nubs at the end. Then up again, to a face that finally looked like Chloe. More make-up than usual - applied over three attempts, a bit better each time. Lipstick, eye-shadow, blush, mascara, nail polish. Hair done a bit tighter in its pony-tail, some strands still hanging loose around her eyes, but still un-mistakably Chloe. To complete the picture, her state-of-mind - not her internal-monolog, still fretting over the fit of the lingerie and application of the make-up. Never giving time for deeper introspection - but her emotions, the usual anxiety and self-consciousness that Chloe internalizes as part of her, but also a small, warm glow of confidence, not there last week, not felt inside her for a very very long time. She looked the part, or close enough, she looked like she belonged in that office, helping Mr Williams, and this week she was going to make sure she did everything she could to prove herself to him, to earn that contract.

She squeezed herself into her dress next. Tight, black and body conforming, mid-thigh with a deep exposing neck-line, her squeezed in and un-protected breasts threatening to burst out at any exaggerated movement.

Then she was out the door.

Office at 6am, punctual. Coffee brought at 7:05, back in the hallway by 7:15. Elevator chime at 7:25, coffee still hot, efficient, exceptional. Williams unlocked the office, Chloe followed in his wake, into his main office, coffee down on the desk as he sat. She stood patiently at the side of the desk, hands clasped in-front. Williams did his usual routine, emails, papers, memos - all while drinking his coffee, his coffee which he hadn't made her re-fetch, because he hadn't needed to. Eventually his grey eyes came up, latching onto her.

"Centre."

She wobbled on her high heels to the centre of the room at his command. He stood and approached, circling her like a shark circles prey, his fingers lightly tracing her mid-section as he did so, slow and deliberate.

"This fits you well."

That was it, the only praise she received, a single line. Inside she melted, a warm glow diffusing through her. Her posture straightening slightly without her realizing.

"Thank you, Alexander."

Williams finished his circle and stopped in-front of her, his piercing gaze locking on, Chloe's own eyes shyly averting.

"I won't inspect you further today, you've done well so far, so I'll place my trust in you that the rest is at standard."

Chloe's eyes snapped up, locking and holding Williams, her body feeling warmer still, Williams' trust in her causing a blossoming of heat, a slight blush pinkening her cheeks and spreading down to her exposed bosom.

*I'm finally getting it right, and now I'm being rewarded, and it's amazing.*

"Thank you, Alexander."

---

Later that morning, Williams slid a folder across the desk to her.

"Your contract. As promised."

The folder was heavier than she had expected, the paper inside thick, creamy, the firm's letterhead embossed across the top in a navy she could feel under her thumb. Her name sat below the letterhead, Chloe Marie Fulton, and below her name was the job title he had given her, Junior Secretary, which she read three times before she fully believed it, her name on a law firm letterhead, a real title, a real document. She picked the contract up with both hands because one wasn't steady enough.

He walked her through it, clause by clause, the way she had heard him walk clients through paperwork the week before when she had sat at the reception desk and tried not to listen.

Salary came first. He gave her the number. It was lower than she'd let herself expect, and her disappointment must have shown on her face, because he was already explaining before she had a chance to try and hide it.

"Given the learning curve, the outfits still being sorted, I can only justify trainee wages right now. Entry level. It'll cover your basics, food and transport, the minimum. Once you've proven yourself, we'll revisit."

Trainee wages. She turned the number over in her head. Enough for packed lunches. Enough for the bus fare. Not enough for rent, not even close, but he had said the rent was being handled a different way and she believed him. She nodded.

He walked her through the rest. Start date backdated to her first Monday - that meant back-pay, he told her, a favour. She thanked him without thinking. Probationary period, six months. Standard duties. Dress code "at the discretion of the supervising partner", a phrase he read out in a tone that made it sound like nothing, however the real weight of it settled onto Chloe.

Then the clauses he slowed on.

"This part is important." His voice changed, not warm, not cold, grave - a voice she'd only heard him use with other lawyers on the phone. "If you leave before the end of the contract term, you'd owe back everything I've invested in you. The advance I gave you Friday. Any future costs on your behalf, training, clothing, whatever's been spent, whatever gets spent. The point of the clause isn't to punish you. It's to make sure I'm not left carrying the bag if you decide to walk."

She nodded. She understood. Leaving would ruin her.

*That's fair. He's paying my rent, training me, investing in me. Of course there are consequences if I walked out on all of that. Any employer would protect themselves.*

The confidentiality clause next. He read it to her slowly, the cadence lifting at the end of each sentence the way his voice lifted in court. All firm knowledge protected. All workplace practices and procedures. Breach could result in criminal prosecution, civil damages, costs, recovery of legal fees. She heard the word *jail* in her own head, the fine print reading less like paperwork and more like a threat.

She signed on the last page.

A second folder landed beside the first the moment her pen lifted.

"Standard trainee contract. Covers the probation terms. Every new hire signs one. Boilerplate."

Thicker than the first, denser, the font smaller, the lines packed tighter. She opened it and tried to read the first paragraph, which referred to Schedule A in a way that suggested Schedule A existed somewhere, but Schedule A was not in the folder. The second paragraph referred to Appendix C. She couldn't find Appendix C either. By the third paragraph she had lost the thread of what was being defined and what was being incorporated and what was being restricted, and she turned a page, and the next page was just as grey and just as hard and just as tight, and she turned another, and another, and the ink swam in front of her.

"It's boilerplate, Chloe. Standard across the industry. You can read it in your own time if you like, but you don't need to."

She signed on the last page; she hadn't read the middle twelve.

He took both folders back. He slid them into the top drawer of his desk, closed the drawer, turned the small brass key, and the drawer lock clicked - a small metal click no louder than the click of a pen.

"Now. The rent."

"Alexander, I wanted to-"

"Don't worry about it." Warm again, the Friday voice, the scotch voice, the voice she hadn't known he had until three days ago. "I wouldn't let my assistant go homeless while she works for me. It'll all be taken care of."

Her eyes filled. She pressed the inside of her wrist against the corner of each one in turn, because she had been trying not to cry for an hour and she would not start now.

"Thank you."

He nodded once. That was that.

---

The rest of the morning was unlike any morning she had had in that office so far. Real work. She answered the phone using the greeting he had taught her, *Alexander Williams' office*, and she filed correspondence at her desk, in a chair, like a person, and she drafted a short letter to a client, which he read and said "fine" about - not *adequate*, not *better*, just "fine" - and "fine" was more than she had had all week, and "fine" was enough.

For ten-minute stretches she forgot about the dress.

Then she moved, and she remembered.

When she leaned forward at her desk, the neckline dipped. When she crossed her legs, the stocking-tops showed. When she bent at the waist to get something out of the low drawer of the filing cabinet, the hem rode up her thighs to an inch below the garter clips, and she could feel the cool office air on the bare skin above the stockings, and when she stood up the hem did not slide back down on its own and she had to tug it with both hands.

At eleven, the intercom buzzed and a voice downstairs announced a client, and she buzzed him up. Silver-haired, mid-fifties, tall, a heavy gold watch that caught the overhead light every time he gestured. Williams introduced her.

"Chloe, my new assistant."

Then he looked at the coffee machine, and she walked to the coffee machine, and she made the two coffees the way Williams had taught her. She carried them across the office on the small tray. She bent at the waist to place the cups on the low conference table between the two leather chairs, and the client's eyes dropped to her neckline as her cleavage came down into his line of sight, and they held - longer than a polite look, long enough that she felt them land. Then they lifted back to Williams as if nothing had happened, and Williams said something about depositions, and the meeting continued.

Chloe walked back to her desk, her face hot, her chest hot, the skin of her thighs hot above the stocking-tops where the hem had ridden up again. She sat down. She did not look up for ten whole minutes.

*The neckline must have shifted when I bent. I should have held it. I'll hold it next time. I'll press my hand against my chest when I bend. He told me how to dress and I still can't get through a single meeting without making it weird.*

She pressed her forearm across her chest and typed with her elbows tucked in until the client left.

---

Early afternoon. The client gone. Williams at his desk, reading. The office quiet, the sun through the blinds cutting the carpet into long bright slats. She had been gathering a small stack of finished files on the corner of her desk for the last ten minutes, corners aligned the way he had shown her to align them, and she carried the stack across the room to his desk.

She had carried files across that office a dozen times already that morning. She leaned forward to place the stack on the corner of his desk.

A simple motion. The same motion she had been making all day.

The cup-less bra had been lifting her breasts all day, the underwire pushing them up into the neckline, the neckline holding them in, barely - the edge of the fabric sitting just above her nipples, pressed down by the weight of her own breasts, a balance she had kept all morning without thinking about it. She didn't think about it now. She just leaned.

When she bent and straightened, the dress moved with her torso and her left breast did not. The breast had shifted inside the bra by a fraction of an inch, a small shift that broke the balance, and her left nipple rose above the neckline and sat there in the open air of his office, framed by the black fabric, hard from the air-conditioning, dark pink against the pale flesh around it.

She did not feel it. The bra held her so firmly that the shift made no difference she could feel, no brush of air against the nipple, no change of pressure anywhere on her body. She stood at his desk, her left nipple pointing straight at him, and she had no idea.

He saw it.

Her fat pink nub, perched there above the neckline, the aureola puckered tight from the chill, the dark ring a shade darker than the nub itself, half a tit spilling out of the dress he had chosen, framed by the cleavage he had mandated, pushed up by the bra he had specified, and the girl herself standing there with those big wet doe eyes and no idea, no idea at all.

His cock stiffened. His jaw locked. His hand moved before the rest of him.

His fingers closed around the exposed nipple andtwisted. A hard half-rotation, thumb and forefinger clamped down, a jerk that sent a white line of pain through the breast, into her ribs, up into her collarbone, out across her shoulder, and she screamed. Her hands flew up against his chest, palms flat, her weight rocking backwards, and he was already standing, his grip locked, and he pulled upwards. Her heels left the carpet. Her body was hauled up onto her toes by the breast he was twisting, the whole of it dragged up and out of the neckline, the full pale weight of it exposed, her nipple crushed between his thumb and forefinger, her hands pressed flat against the front of his shirt for a balance that wasn't there.

Her face was six inches from his. Close enough to see the grey of his eyes go cold. Close enough to smell the coffee on his breath.

"What," he said, quietly, precisely, "isthis?"

"I'm sorry - I didn't know - I didn't feel it-"

"I tried to hire an assistant." He twisted harder. She sobbed. "And I ended up with a whore who can't keep her tits inside her clothes. In my office. Where I meetclients."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

"Every day, it's something." He did not release. "Every single day this week. I'm starting to wonder if I made a mistake with that contract."

"Please, Alexander-"

His grip tightened. A strangled choke came out of her. Her eyes went wide. Fresh tears ran down her cheeks.

"What did you just call me?"

"I - I'm sorry-"

"Sir." The word cut. "You call me Sir. Is that clear?"

"Yes Sir - sorry Sir - please Sir, I'm sorry, please let go-" She was babbling now, her hands pushing at his chest with no force, her body writhing on its toes with nowhere to go, and she could feel his knuckle grinding against the side of her breast, each quarter-degree of the twist its own separate cruelty.

He held her. One second. Two. Five. Ten.

Then he opened his hand.

She dropped. Her heels hit the carpet and her knees gave out under her and her hip caught the edge of the desk as she went down. She braced one hand against the wood and cupped the breast with the other, cradling it, the nipple pulsing hot in time with her heartbeat, and she tucked it back into the neckline with shaking fingers and pulled the fabric up over it and held it there.

---

He sat. He opened the folder. He picked up the pen.

His hand was steady. His breathing was even. He turned a page he did not read.

Too soon.

The assessment arrived the way his good arguments did. Diagnosis, not feeling. He had moved on instinct and the instinct had been wrong. He had seen the nipple and gone for it and the higher parts of him had caught up a second late, a full second, long enough for him to twist her tit in his own office while the contracts were not even dry in the drawer, long enough for her to still have a way out if walking out was something she could bring herself to do. She couldn't. He was reasonably sure she couldn't. But reasonably sure was not certain, and he had been certain last Friday, and it had cost him to build that certainty, and now on a Monday afternoon he had thrown some of it away for the momentary satisfaction of putting his hand on a tit that would be available to him on his own terms within the month. Stupid.

He turned another page. He read the first sentence of it three times.

Months of work. Months of preparation. The perfect girl. And you might have just blown it because a nipple fell out.

---

She stayed on the carpet for a long second, both hands cradling the aching breast, her tears dripping onto the dark wool under her knees. Her lungs were taking small shallow gulps that did not fill them. Her hands were shaking so hard that the fabric of the dress was vibrating against itself.

He was already reading. The pen was already in his hand. His breathing the same steady breathing he had had all morning, all week, as if he had straightened a picture on a wall and gone back to his work.

The nipple felt swollen and bruised and hot. She could still feel the shape of his fingers on it, the exact width of his thumb, the exact angle of his forefinger, the exact pressure of the twist, as though his hand were still there.

She did not speak for the rest of the afternoon.

Not because he had told her not to. Because she was too afraid to. She filed in silence, and she answered the phone in a whisper the caller twice asked her to repeat, and every thirty seconds her hand went to the neckline of the dress, tugging it up, pressing it flat against her chest, checking it, and when she had to bend she bent at the knees like a woman doing a squat and held the neckline with her free hand, and when she had to sit down at her desk she pressed her forearm across her body and kept it there, and the nipple ached with every movement, a dull hot throb that sharpened each time the cloth brushed against it, and she kept filing, and she kept answering the phone, and she kept not speaking, while outside the window the afternoon light went from white to gold to orange.

By four o'clock, the terror had dulled. The adrenaline was gone. What was left was the replaying. His hand, how fast it had moved. The coffee on his breath. The word *whore*. The *Alexander* she had called him in the middle of it, the name she had earned on Friday, thrown back at him without thinking, taken back off her a second later and replaced with *Sir*. A small bent paperclip on the carpet at the foot of his desk, black on the dark weave, caught in the fibres of the wool beside his shoe. She hadn't noticed it all morning. She couldn't stop noticing it now. She couldn't get to it without bending in front of him again, and she wasn't bending in front of him again.

*He's right. My nipple was out. In his office. Where he meets clients.*

She thought about the morning. The no-inspection. The trust.

*He trusted me. He didn't even check. And this is what I did with it.*

*Other women work in offices. Other women wear professional clothes. Other women don't have their tits falling out.*

And the name. The Alexander she had thrown at him. The gift he had given her on Friday afternoon when she had cried in his office and he had caught her and sat her in the leather chair and poured her water from the carafe himself. She had thrown the gift at him, and he had twisted her harder for it, and he had taken it back.