Office Crisis

She didn’t know whether to be furious at the builders, or amused by them.

It was awkward, the office being open while men in dungarees and hard hats struggled with air conditioning ducts and recalcitrant wiring. She found it hard talking business with clients when there were men clambering up stepladders next to her desk.

She had to admit though, they were fun.

She had to admit, too, that they brought out the best and the worst in her.

As a professional planner, working hard to keep projects on schedule, she hated their presence and the disturbance they caused.

As a woman who loved men’s attention, she loved the banter and the smiles and the cheerful attitudes to their work. She liked the way they didn’t particularly hide their lechery either. There were four of them in total. Gary, the foreman, was a slender, thin-faced man, about forty, with the look of someone used to spending time in the country.

The other three were Paul and Terry, brothers, good humoured, always joking, and Phillip. Phillip she couldn’t quite work out. He didn’t joke as much as the other three, but he was respected by them; almost as if they knew something about him that made them accept his being slightly different.

Christine liked to reassure herself that she understood men. She liked men, too, but mainly she prided herself on understanding them, and being able to get them to do what she wanted.

That was why she was an exhibitionist. She wanted men to want her. Not in some spiritual way, or some romantic style. She wanted men to want her physically, to want to use her body. Not that she got many chances to act out her fantasies, but knowing that men were masturbating over the thought of her, or had the image of her body in their minds s they made love with their wives was a substitute.

That was why she had started leaving pictures of herself in places where men might find them. Each day at work she would wait till the office was empty at lunchtime, then check the Hotmail email address that she had written on the back of the photos. Sometimes the emails she received were lyrical, love poems that she would smile at with a little wistfulness, sad that the men hadn’t realised she didn’t want to be wined and dined. There were emails that were more to her taste, pictures that had been stained with men’s come and scanned into computers, or web cam pictures of men as they came on her image. Those were the emails that made her wet, made her need to slip into the office toilet and masturbate, rubbing at her clit with one hand, shoving the fingers of the other hand into her mouth to stifle her gasps. She suspected that colleagues had overheard her sometimes, but if they had, no one had said anything to her.

The fear that colleagues would find out about her tastes was part of the spice for Christine. She loved the idea that people might find out about her, might know that in her own mind she was a slut, a woman who wanted to be stripped of her business suit and her status, and reduced to an object. She’d never quite squared the circle in her own mind, of what she would do if a man walked up to her and said ‘I recognise you from the photos of you frigging yourself…’

She pushed the edge of flirting though. On a Friday she would go to work knickerless, and spend part of her day dreaming about driving home with her skirt pulled above her waist, her pussy on show to anyone able to look down into her car. She always thought of a reason not to do it, but increasingly she knew that all that was stopping her was the lack of a towel to sit on to soak up her juices as she drove and exposed herself. In her head she imagined the Friday when she would slip a hand towel into her bag as she left the house, ready for the journey home…

On this Friday she hadn’t brought a towel to work, but she was knickerless, and the builders wandering in and out of her office on the slightest pretext. In fleeting moments she wondered if they knew about her uncovered state under her skirt. How could they know? She didn’t know, but her mind could roam round the possibilities, and each time she thought about it, she got wet.

The day flew by; if she wasn’t busy with the next seminar she had to organise she was lost in her imagination. She only realised what time it was as colleagues popped their heads round her office door, calling out farewells and the usual invitations to the pub that she declined each week. On Fridays she was usually the last to leave, giving the reception staff the chance to flirt with the sales men in the local pub.

The final group of people to pop into the office and offer their farewells were the builders. They gathered in front of her desk, as if they were waiting for something. She looked up, took her glasses off and waited for them. She’d flirted with them so often that she couldn’t look stern, or ask them what they were waiting for, even if she’d wanted to. The tension was broken by Gary handing her an envelope, foolscap size. She opened it slowly, expecting one of those photocopied joke sheets that every office has shared since the invention of the photocopier. Thirty reasons why a cucumber is better than a man? She’d seen that one a hundred times, and always wondered why none of the women in the office had added on the bottom’ because you can’t find a cock the size of a cucumber in Sainsbury’s vegetable section’ or ‘because feeling utterly stuffed as if you’re going to burst while frigging your clit is the best feeling in the world…’

The envelope didn’t contain a photocopied joke. It contained one of her photographs, the one of her fastening a handcuff to her left wrist, naked, her breasts towards the camera, her crotch slightly shaded. When she’d left the picture in a car park she’d written on the bottom ‘want to finish the job?’ along with her email address.

She turned the letter over in her hands. It was handwritten in block capitals.

“This is Christine Smith. She works for the Builders and Plumbers Training Association. She lives at Martins Lee, and she is a member of the school PTA there. Do you think this kind of woman is what you want as a neighbour?’

She looked from the picture to Gary’s face, then to the other men. They looked expectant, eager, but also implacable. They were waiting for Gary to deliver the final blow, and even ass he thought crossed her mind she realised that this was the moment she had always feared and wanted.

“You see Christine, we’ve known all week what you are really like. We’ve seen the picture, and we’ve had time to make copies…” She’d listened to Gary talk like this before, his voice gentle as he told a tale or led her into a shaggy dog story.

“But it couldn’t have been a worse group of builders to find this pic Chrissy… Guess what we do at weekends….” Christine looked up at him.

“Should I be interested in what you do at weekends?”

“You should be. We run a little video business. Mainly what we set up is gangbang videos. Sometimes we pay the women involved and sell the videos on the net, but to tell you the truth I don’t think a lot of the women do the videos for the money.” Christine tried to keep her voice light and gentle.

“So why do they do it then?”

Gary replied in a similar tone.

“Some do it because I’m a cruel and heartless bastard who loves S&M and making women come and cry at the same time, and some do it because young Phillip here is hung like a horse… Which would you prefer Chrissy? The heartless S& M or being fucked till you’re stretched by the stallion here?” Christine shook her head; she knew it was a clichéd response, but she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Still they were waiting for her answer.

“I don’t answer hypothetical questions Gary.” He shook his head in turn, slow sad shakes like a teacher disappointed with the pupil’s answer.

“It isn’t hypothetical. You have three choices Chrissy. The first is that you ask us to leave your office, and we distribute 100 of these around your neighbours. The second is that we gangbang you; it’ll be fun for all of us; we never leave a woman unsatisfied. The third is that we have a little S&M session with you. Take your pick.” Chrissy now felt light headed and shaken. Could he be serious?

“Gary, you can’t be serious… I mean, you wouldn’t deliver those leaflets….” Gary laughed out loud, mocking here.

“We would and we will Chrissy. Now since you don’t want the leaflets delivered why don’t you show us that you’re going to give in eventually. Stand up and take your skirt off, and then we can discuss what you’re going to agree to…”

She didn’t know why she decided to give in, or what had made her act, but she stood up, unzipped her skirt, and stepped out of it as it fell around her ankles. She stepped to the side of her desk; she wanted to appear defiant or brave, but inside she was shaking, and she clamped her knees together as much to stop them trembling as to conceal her pubic hair and its wet state. Gary sounded cheerful, not mocking her but light hearted.

“You can take your blouse and bra off now Chrissy. You will make the boys hard once you’re naked, and the harder you make them the quicker they’ll come and maybe the quicker you’ll get out of here….” Her fingers fumbled with the buttons on her blouse, but she could see the sense in what he was saying. It didn’t take long for her to be naked, and it didn’t help her composure that her nipples were instantly stiff. Air conditioning or arousal, it made no difference. They could all see her, naked and wet, her nipples hard. Gary was fumbling with his tool belt, reaching for something.

“While the boys are getting stripped Chrissy I’ll have some fun with you. Come and stand in front of the desk. “ Something in his voice made her shiver, and she spoke quietly.

“I’ll do what you want, but please, don’t mark me… Please…” Even though she was scared of him she stood by the desk, her hands at her side.

“I’m not going to mark you this time Chrissy, just decorate you while we use you. It night hurt a little, but you’re not going to worry about that are you.”

She could see now what he had been fiddling with on hiss tool belt. In his hands he had three short lengths of ssolid copper wire, and a pair of pliers. His movements were quick and precise, looping the wire around her right nipple, twisting the ends across each other, then pulling at her nipple with his left hand as he used the pliers in his right hand to twist the wire until it was tight around her nipple, the engorged tip trapped and purple. Part of her brain admired the deftness of his movements, but the thoughts and the attempt to cope with the constriction of her nipple was blotted out by a searing pain as he gripped her nipple in the jaws of the pliers, strectcching her nipple as he pushed the wire collar further down the engorged stalk. She tried to hold her breath, to not gasp as he released her nipple from the pliers then gave the wire clamp another twist. It was only when he’d stopped that she realised she had her hands on his wrist, as much in supplication as in an attempt to stop him. She released his wrist and looked downwards. She knew she’d done wrong, that in his world of S&M she’d committed an error. She expected a blow, a punishment. What she got was his hand reaching between her thighs, his finger rubbing hard over her clit.

“You can protest all you like but you love it Chrissy. You are so infuriating; Mrs Prim in your business suit but a slut underneath….” She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder, to let the orgasm that was building course through her. She let him hold her hands in his, even as he pulled them behind her back and taped her thumbs together with insulating tape. She could do nothing now except stare as he repeated the treatment of her left nipple, wrapping it with the wire and twisting it tighter. When the pliers closed on her nipples and stretched it for the final adjustment she gasped, and closed her eyes. How could she betray herself so, by coming as he hurt her? Her legs sgook, and she felt as if she could lose control of her bladder at any time. Control. She loved to control men, to make them want her, to let them see what she wanted them to see, to let them know what she wanted to know. And here she was, hands taped behind her back, copper nooses around her nipples, her thighs smeared with juices that seemed to be streaming from her body, unable to control even her responses. Part of her wanted to cry, to weep and demand to be set free, but the main part, the dominant part of her personality wanted to follow Gary’s hands, to do what pleased him.

She followed his hands as he manouvered around to face her desk, bending forward as he looped pieces of electrical flex around her ankles and around he desk legs. She was open and exposed, and utterly vulnerable. When he started to whip her with an improvised flogger made of lengths of cable taped together at one end she wasn’t sure if he was doing what he wanted or what she imagined. Even as she jerked against the blows she knew that she would rub her painful, swollen nipples against the desk. So was that why she raised her hips from the desk, inviting the blows? When Paul stepped forward and rubbed his cock against her mouth it was choreographed, the way he kept her mouth closed at first as he smeared her understated lipstick, then opened her mouth to gasp as Gary diverted a blow to the inside of her thighs, and allowed the slim uncut erection into her mouth, rubbing over her tongue. She tightened her tongue and lips around it, keen to make him come, aware that there were three more men waiting for her services…

To be continued