The Office Siren

The Office Siren - Chapter One

Josie's Notes

Hi y'all! I'm baaaack!

Welcome to my new multi-part series

The Office Siren

, where a few sexy girls use everything at their disposal to get what they want. Everything.

There's plenty of lesbian sex and hetero sex in Siren. I'm no stranger to either, so I hope you like how it goes down.

Most of the main characters in Office S+iren are imaged in my website. See my profile page for the weblink (I'm not allowed to post it here) but be forewarned. The Office Siren pages have spoilers.

Let me know in the comments if you think the story's on a good path.

~~

I sat back and waited for her to conclude the interview. I think I did well. I'd answered everything just the way my research told me I should, right down to what I should say about my goals. 'To make my department head shine!', I'd said enthusiastically. My key worry was that I'm overqualified. IT degree majoring in AI programming from Georgia Tech. MBA in General Management from Harvard.

The position? Junior Data Analyst for one of the largest PR firms in New York.

I have a really solid referral from a company insider.

My pussy moistened as I remembered 'my referral' agreeing to get me this interview. When he spoke, his voice was somewhat - muffled.

Word is that Poulsen Pendergast Masterly & Vonn is losing business. The market sees the firm as staid. Old school conservative. All their business comes from the old-boys network. Not a single woman in a higher position of authority. It's worked for them for a hundred years.

PPMV is exactly what I need right now. Calm. Buttoned down. Safe.

If I don't get it under control, this libido of mine is going to get me in big trouble. I can't - I just can

not

repeat the mistakes of my past. So I've made the decision: what's in my past, stays in the past. I've got to take the hard life lessons and move on. Because if I don't get some structure in my life, some

normalcy

, if I don't get my absolute living SHIT together, I'm going to die poor and flat on my back, with my legs spread and my pussy gushing.

Seriously, it's a lot worse than it sounds.

"Everything seems to be in order Miss Peters," Mrs. Penderly, the matron in charge of HR said.

Miss Peters. Old school indeed.

I certainly expected everything to "be in order." The Senior VP I blew last night wouldn't want that little secret to get out.

I'll hold that card for later.

"Thank you, Mrs. Penderly," I said demurely. Old cunt.

I said before I need this job to get some stability in my life. But fuck me, no-one should have to live and work like this.

"I see you got the dress code memo," Penderly said.

The dress code. You can't make this stuff up.

"Just so you don't get into any trouble during your probationary period of three months, I'll go over it with you. I must remind you that any girl who violates the dress code while in their probationary period will be dismissed immediately. There are no warnings. Are you clear about that?"

"Oh yes, Mrs. Penderly. This isn't hard for me. Why, I didn't have to buy anything new for my closet at all. Your dress code fits my style perfectly."

It is true I didn't buy anything new. Everything I plan to wear for the next three months I got from the New Beginnings store on 78

th

. The one that sells matronly designer wear.

"Very good. So here it is. Firstly we require all our girls to wear hosiery. We don't accept bare legs. This is not a beach resort." She said it with a faint smile. An old joke she's told a thousand times. I rewarded her with a modest smile.

"We require dresses or skirts. Hemlines must be no higher than the knee. This is strictly enforced. Shoulders are to be covered at all times, nothing sleeveless. All skirts, dresses, and blouses must be loose fitting such that the physical attributes of the wearing do not distract."

Yeah. It took a lot of hunting through those sales bins to find enough tops to hide this massive pair of knockers. I had to settle for sweaters about five sizes too fucking big. I look like a freak, but it seems I pass. At least I don't always have to wear a bra. At 34EE, the girls aren't happy in a harness and the sweaters are bulky enough to hide it all.

I can't help but think my sweater is so big, whenever I get horny I could snatch some random and yank him into the bathroom. Drape it over his head and make him suck my nipples 'til I cum.

Yeah, I know. A girl doesn't wanna get a reputation. That worked at school, but the office is different. At least that's what they tell me.

"Finally, your shoes must have a low heel, no more than two inches. Is everything very clear?"

"Yes, Mrs. Penderly. Chrystal clear."

"Good. I'll take you out to your desk. Your supervisor is in a meeting, but when he returns, he'll give you your work assignments."

We stand and shake hands. I'm pleased to see that I top her by several inches. At five eleven in nylons, I'm north of six feet, even in these kitten heels.

When we walk out onto the seventh floor, I'm stunned. A sea of open desks, not a cubicle wall in sight. Each desk is equipped with a keyboard, two large screens, a small filing cabinet (mostly for shoes and purses, I would say), a desk light and not much else.

But what strikes me is that in this entire army of workers, there is not a single man. I'm starting at the bottom, and there's plenty of women here with me.

The perimeter of the floor is lined with private offices. Glass fronts equipped with blinds. Many of the managers keeps their blinds tightly closed - hoarding all the daylight for themselves.

Typical, yes. But window blinds can be useful in other ways.

My work area is in a cluster of eight. Seven heads look up. A few of them even smile.

"Hi," I say, swiveling my head. "I'm Jenny. It's nice to be here."

A pretty young woman sitting facing me reaches over our monitors and shakes my hand. "Hey Jenny, I'm Vivia." She was modestly dressed, of course, and her platinum white blonde hair was bundled into a tight bun, but under all those shitty clothes and the accountant spectacles, I can tell she's a knockout.

Too bad.

Six more heads pop up to say hello. All around me, women swivelled in their office chairs to smile and welcome me. Yet not one thigh, not one pinched waist, not even one stiletto high heel did I see.

It was so depressing!

"Everyone really takes this dress code seriously around here, don't they?" I said to the woman beside me.

"Don't fuck with the dress code Jenny. Unless you want old lady Penderly coming down on you. Girl last week got fired for having a thigh-high slit in her floor length skirt. I'm Aurora, by the way."

I shook her hand and turned back to my desk to check out the orientation program. As I booted up the 'puter, I wondered whose cock I may need to suck to get some changes around here.

***

Three Months Later

"Congratulations Jenny for completing your probationary period. You now have the privilege of being a full-time employee of Poulsen Pendergast Masterly & Vonn."

I was sitting in the little chair opposite Mr. Sykes' desk. His chair is a full-blown executive model with the high leather back, and slightly elevated to project his authoritative power.

My chair - not so much.

Mid-forties, Sykes is the seniormost executive on the floor and one of the chief light hogs.

"Thank you Mr. Sykes."

"Let me tell you. Only the elite get to play at PPMV. You're one of the elites now Jenny."

So I'm an elite now. Let's see.

All-male client development via back room deals over cigars and cognac. Check.

Neanderthal dress codes for women. Check.

Not one woman above the level of senior manager. Check.

Whole floors full of women building spreadsheets and marketing plans for their male managers. Got it.

Somehow I didn't feel like "one of the elites." More like the supporting cast to the elites.

Meaning: the men.

"We do performance reviews every six months, Jenny," he continued, "where we track your progress and evaluate it towards your goals."

Okay, my goals. I have ideas. "That's great Mr. Sykes. When do you want me to forward my career goals?"

Sykes swallowed visibly, then gave me a condescending smile. "You misunderstand. I'll be forwarding your goals to you. Next week."

I can't help noticing Sykes stealing glances at my chest. Not much to see really. Oh I've got the goods all right. 34EE right out of the box. But this baggy sweater isn't giving him much to go on.

"Your goals - for me?"

"Yes, of course. When you meet your goals, along with all the other ladies in my department, then I meet my goals. When the department meets its goals, everybody's happy. I get my bonus, and then I look after you. See how it works?"

Yeah, I see how it works.

"So, Jenny, if there's nothing else?"

I slumped into my desk chair and stared at the screen. In the space of five short minutes, I'd had direct confirmation this job was going nowhere. No upward mobility for the women. Every moment of our working day devoted to getting our light-hogging manager his annual bonus.

I crossed my legs, eyeing the grey wool of my pleated skirt. The fine fabric draped an inch or so over the curve of my knee. I picked up one of the pleats between my thumb and forefinger and absent mindedly rubbed the layers together.

Fuck I hate this skirt.

I hate this place.

I hate my manager.

This fucking place is going nowhere. One of the "elites"? That's a laugh. Doesn't he get it? PPMV is losing market share faster than a goose shits grass. The old boys are dying off.

Why am I here?

Jenny, Jenny, Jenny, you need stability. Your life depends on it.

I scratch my thigh through the wool of my skirt. I like how the fabric rubs across my nylons, giving me sexy little vibes. Without thinking, I uncross and recross my legs. I love the feel of my garters pulling on my nylons every time I sit or cross. The feeling of nylon on nylon. It's why I cross and recross my legs so much. I love that sexy feeling of rubbing my nylon legs together.

I wondered if Mrs. Penderly knew I was wearing sexy French nylons and a garter belt under these frumpy threads. If she saw an outline of my garters against the skirt, would she say something?

Next to me Vivia was busy at some complex spreadsheet on her computer. She's so good at her job. Any Excel question I have: Boom, she's got the answer. I cast my eyes down at her legs. The hemline of her baggy dress falls to mid-calf, revealing the glossy fine nylons clinging to her trim ankles. Suddenly I wondered if Vivia is wearing sexy nylon stockings like me under all that material.

This is fucked up. Why should we hide our nylons? What's wrong with our knees? Our thighs?

Who the fuck are they to tell us what to wear, what to think? They have no idea how to run a business, or how to get new customers.

Cognac and cigars. Downtown clubs. Golf. Fishing trips.

Strip clubs.

They think we don't know. All the women know.

On my desk was one of Sykes' expense reports. It needed to be processed. I was asked to do it because Amelia, his "secretary", is off sick.

On the receipt was scrawled in ballpoint pen: "Client entertainment."

The business name on the receipt was "Downtown Food and Beverage Club." The amount of the claim was eye-popping: $5,600.

That SFW code is for the Eyes Only strip club on forty-seventh. It's a high-end club that pushes the legal boundaries. Ploughs through them, to be honest. Political connections and payoffs make it all happen.

I know, because I used to work there. Paid my way through Harvard from that place. Lots of girls financed their higher education at Eyes, one sticky twenty at a time.

Now that I had this receipt staring at me, Sykes' face suddenly looked vaguely familiar. As in, in-my-past familiar.

There'd been so many. So many hungry faces, staring up at my gorgeous fit body as I cavorted above them. The "Eyes Only" name on the sign was a joke. These guys got to touch, and they all did. Some more than others. A lot more.

It sounds terrible but I don't know how many I fucked in the VIP rooms. Or blew. I can't remember their faces. Just their money. Talk about high finance. I was a master of cash flow. How to maximize it, how to collect it, how to keep it coming and coming and...cumming.

That's what they were, those faces. Money machines that cum. But they only get to cum after I drain them. And I'm not talking about their balls.

No-one leaves my VIP room with money in their wallet. I even had a payment terminal. I made up a sexy game where I got to punch in the PIN with my hardened nipples. You'd be shocked at how many of those faces loved to play that game, not thinking what it cost them.

Or how many transactions I was able to make behind their backs while their faces were buried in my glorious double E's. Or my pussy.

There was one guy. Fuck he was a horny bastard. Couldn't take his eyes off my tits. I can't really blame him. At 34EE 22 34, I've got the goods. But with some guys, you just know. You know he's going to be good for anything, any amount, just to get that little prick of his inside me.

There's plenty of ways to do it. The VIP rooms at Eyes Only give you options. There's a couch, of course. They've got wall restraints, an adjustable cot like an operating table (again with restraints if he wants them), a stripper pole.

For him, I chose The Chair.

I had him all the way. In the main lounge, I spotted him from high up on the Pole. Eye fucked him through nearly a full song. After my dismount, I strutted over to his table. A fifty got my ass in his lap. When I put my full weight on his dick and crossed my legs, draping my arm around his neck, he was all mine. And no, he didn't get to cum. Not in the main room, anyway. Nobody cums in the main room. That's for later.

When he was close, I stood and took his hand. Didn't have to say a thing. My ass did all the talking.

And my legs.

And my tits.

I led him like a little boy through the crowds of the hustlers and the hustled, the unclothed and the clothed. The ones who work for the money and the ones eager to give it to them.

I kept my eyes laser focused on the door to the VIP. He trailed behind me, dutifully holding my hand, eyes on my ass, walking in step behind me. Eager. Horny.

Ready.

Ready for The Chair.

Whoever invented The Chair was a mistress of the dark arts. No man can resist me when he's in The Chair. No man can hold on to his money when he's all strapped in and helpless.

I kicked the door shut and threw the deadbolt with a loud

thunk

. Men think it's sexy when a woman locks him in with her. I like it too: He's not getting away until he's got nothing left but his Metro Card.

I led him backwards towards The Chair. It's my favorite instrument of sexual torture. So many advantages.

Comfortable padded seat, so he can take all my weight for a very long time.

Ankle and bicep restraints so he feels dominated but can still touch with his hands.

Six inch hole in the seat so I can get at his business from every direction.

Tilt and lift, to get him exactly where I want him.

Perfect.

I straddle his lap. But I don't sit in it yet. He loves my tits - he's hardly taken his eyes off my gorgeous double E's. This guy's addicted to breast flesh. So I give it to him. As much as he can handle.

His mouth goes for a nipple. I back away.

Not yet.

I push forward again, driving his nose in between. He's happy with that, for now.

He'll get more later. But it's going to cost him.

I squeeze the outside of my breasts together, smothering him. He loves that.

When he comes up for air, I show him a nipple. But I hold it there, just out of reach.

He dives back in, but he doesn't stay long. He wants that nipple in his mouth.

Slowly he pulls back. I look into his eyes. The memory floods back...

Sykes.

I fucking knew it.

"Didn't go so well, Jen?"

"What?" A familiar voice yanks me out of my reverie, just in time.

At the desk beside me, my friend Aurora Wild was sitting back on her chair. Her left arm was raised above her head, the other thrust up under her sweater. She was fidgeting with her bra. She did little to disguise it because hey, we're all victims of the harness on this floor. Besides, there's not a man to be seen.

I love Aurora. She's brilliant - way overqualified for the shit work she's assigned. She's got an empathy EQ that's way over the top. And a marketing degree from U Penn no less. When the job market frees up she'll be out of here so fast you'll miss her if you blink.

"With Sykes. Your meeting didn't go so well?"

"Oh it went just great," I said. "I especially liked the part where if I work hard enough, he'll get his year-end bonus."

"Ouch."

I gestured her sweater with my chin. "Whatcha doin' under there, Wild?"

Aurora looked up and grinned. "Fucking straitjacket. Can't wait to get outta this thing."

"Whattaya say we meet after work?" I gestured at Vivia across from me. "Viv. You come too. I've got an idea I want to run past you. I'm buying."

"So long as I can come commando," Viv said with a shit-eating grin.

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

It was a date. Three gorgeous, repressed broads had a date for drinks.

***

I sat alone at the high top staring at the after-work crowd clustered around the bar. My Vesper, a little heavy on the gin the way I like it, was sitting before me. Aurora and Viv had disappeared together into the bathrooms the instant we arrived, each carrying her ever-present shoulder bag. They're both single malt girls, so I ordered Dalwhinnie 15-year for them, with ice on the side just in case.

Being a Thursday evening, the bar was jammed with businessmen and women, their conversations loud and engaging. Plenty of flirting, the cacophony of the bar giving excuse for close contact, mouths to ears, hands on shoulders, the fine spray of opposite-sex saliva on faces. The phrasing getting a little more risqué with every drink, the touching slightly more intimate, the laughter more exaggerated.

Will any pair off and head out together? It happens. Most here are just interested in the titillation, the condoned close contact with an attractive co-worker before dutifully heading back to the spouse, the kids, and helping with the dishes after dinner. Or not.

Being a lone woman in the midst of such free-wheeling banter and drinking came with the inevitable approach by some hopeful young stud in a suit whose upward mobility is only limited by his ability to fail well and up. A privilege still not afforded the denizens of the seventh floor of Poulsen Pendergast Masterly & Vonn. We're still fixing our bras under baggy sweaters and filling out expense forms for the elite strip clubs for our (upwardly mobile) male bosses.

Of course being a young woman with considerable assets of my own, I've learned to fend off all but the most tone-deaf of the male breed. I've never had a real relationship with a man. Two years of VIP rooms and stripper poles injects a cynicism into a girl that's hard to break through. Even if I was so inclined. For now, I'm content as the mistress of my own domain.

I glanced at my phone and took another sip of my drink. I was thinking about sliding off my stool and checking the bathroom when I spotted them deftly navigating the crowded bar towards my table.

Holy fuck.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea for the two stunning blondes. Free of their PPMV corporate frump-wear, free to do their makeup and hair the way they want.