Promotion

Text by Susan Strict.  Artwork by Rodzo.

She found out about his application.

He had not told her. He had gone straight to the personnel department and asked for the forms as soon as he heard about the vacancy. He needed the work of course, which was the only reason had had not quit years ago, but the opportunity to move to a different office was too good to miss.

It was not that there was anything wrong with working where he was. It was only the office manager he had a problem with. True she paid him overtime whenever she demanded he stayed late, and true too that there was always plenty of ‘overtime’ available. The problem was that her demands were becoming more and more frequent, and she made it quite clear that his job depended on accepting the overtime requirement.

He had hoped they would not consult her or even mention it to her. He knew it was not a realistic hope, and that it was inevitable the decision-makers would consult his present manager before considering him for the new appointment. Still, he had hoped.

Now that hope had faded and here he was again, lying flat on the top of her desk in only his underwear with the strong leather straps binding his ankles together and holding his wrists firmly to his thighs.

"I know how keen you are for promotion, John," she told him as she settled herself comfortably onto his face, "But I really feel you need more experience in your present position."

He tried to reply, but his words were muffled underneath her.

"I don’t think you could cope with the demands of the London office at the moment," she went on. "Although perhaps if I gave you some more intensive training you might be ready for it in a few weeks."

She shifted her position, pressing down over his mouth and nose. "Ah," she murmured as his tongue worked just the way she wanted, "Perfect."

"So, John," she continued, "How would you feel if we extended our evening training another couple of hours each night? We’d have to work Saturdays and Sundays too, of course, but you must have expected that when you applied for that position."

"I can’t hear you," she said, and raised herself slightly. He gasped with a sharp intake of breath, gulping at the fresh air she had denied him for the last minute. Immediately she lowered herself again, although this time she covered only his mouth.

"Lick," she demanded. "You need the practice. And you’ll need to strengthen your tongue muscles if you’re going to work in London."

He did as she ordered, although he was puzzled by her words. It was part of her game, he decided, part of her insatiable desires that she justified her use and abuse of him under the heading of training.

So it seemed she would not try to block his application, and that he really might get away from this office and from her impossible, bizarre demands. The only problem was that she now seemed intent on using him like this even more frequently and intensively, with the totally ridiculous excuse in her warped mind that she was preparing him for his new job.

She started rocking backwards and forwards, sighing quietly to herself. She moved forward, positioning herself once more over his mouth and nose, and recommenced the rocking motion. She squeezed her legs together pressing on either side of his head, her soft, firm flesh forming a completely airtight prison around him. She felt his sudden desperate movements as he found he could not breathe at all, feeling as though he had been sealed into a fleshy package that compressed and threatened to crush him. She knew as well as he did that his movements were useless. With her weight on him, the straps binding his wrists and ankles were more than enough to hold him.

It was part of his training. Breath control was important, very important. What use was a man who needed to move and breathe just at the moment she most needed him to be lying still and concentrating on her pleasure?

Her rocking movement quickened and intensified. The sensation of his face under her was extremely pleasant, and nearly as exciting as the knowledge she had total control over him, over his movements, over his breathing. Quite deliberately and with some effort, she slowed herself. There was no rush. She had already told him they would be working much later from now on, and it would be so disappointing to rush into that shuddering, screaming, gushing climax too soon. Although, naturally, that climax would not be the end of his training for the evening, she did so hate to start again before those sweaty, exhausted sensations had subsided completely.

She slid herself backwards, allowing him to breathe again. How long had she kept him airless this time? She had no idea. It was longer, much longer than usual, but she had completely lost track of time in the heights of her own pure pleasure.

She looked down at him, a little surprised to see his eyes closed and his breathing slow and shallow. She slapped his face until he responded.

"Here," she said angrily. "If you can’t cope with making a little effort like that, how on earth do you expect to be able to cope with your new position in London?"

He heard her words, but they meant nothing to him.

She continued, "You do know, don’t you? You have met the London manager? You have realised that her demands will be much, much greater than mine? You do understand that she is much more difficult to satisfy, as well as being much older and much heavier than I am?"

He stared up at her, with the horrible realisation of what she meant just beginning to dawn on him.

"Come on," she said seriously, "Put some effort into it. If you aren’t trained properly before you start in London, you’ll never manage to survive even the first week...."