 | Chapter 4 Copyright 1999 by Rod Harden All rights reserved |  |
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Once all twelve complainants against Janice Curtis were done with their three strokes apiece, Mr. Johnson lowered the rope holding her arms up and released her. He pulled up her panties and pantyhose, then helped her to lie down on the stage. She lay center stage in front of the auditorium filled with her male colleagues. Her hands and feet were bound with ties, and her mouth was stuffed with handkerchiefs and tied shut with another tie. Her skirt lay off to the side, so only her pantyhose and panties remained below the waist. Above the waist, her blouse and bra both hung open, exposing her delicate breasts to the gathering. As she lay in painful silence, Mr. Johnson invited the group to come on stage for audience participation. As the first row of men filed out of their seats and approached the stage, Jan saw that they too were removing ties and/or belts. She started to writhe and roll around trying desperately to get away, but the executive team already on stage made sure she stayed put. The first three men on stage had combined their ties into one long silken cord, and used it to encircle Mr. Curtis's waist and form a crotch strap, pulling the material of her panties and pantyhose deep into her cunt and ass. Of all the indignities she had suffered that morning, this was for her the worst. She shuddered as the men grabbed her and guided their makeshift rope through the most intimate part of her body. The line proceeded slowly but steadily, with each man adding to Ms. Curtis's restraint. And as each man added his touch to her distress, he would also take a few seconds to roughly grope her. One man used his belt to pull her elbows together behind her back. Another man tightened her arms to her body with his belt. Ties bound her legs above and below the knees, and added to her gag. Several more ties formed an effective blindfold. And still more attached her wrists and feet forming a tight hogtie. By the time the last man added his finishing touch to her bondage, Ms. Curtis's body was almost completely covered in leather and multicolored silk. She lay helplessly on display, breathing heavily through her nose, trying to find a position which afforded a degree of comfort. Pathetic, pleading whimpers emerged from behind her gag. But Mr. Johnson was not quite finished with her yet. He retrieved a long wooden dowel, like a broomstick, and managed to work it behind her tightly bound knees. Ropes from the ceiling were attached to each end of the dowel, and together with Mr. Ferguson, Mr. Johnson hoisted the pretty young attorney up off the floor. She tossed her head frantically as she felt herself losing contact with the stage. But soon she hung by the knees, upside down in a suspended hogtie. Mr. Johnson pulled up a chair next to the dangling piece of feminine flesh. Her head was about even with his face when he was seated, and he turned her so he could look into her face, even though it was almost completely covered with ties and belts. "Ms. Curtis," he began, "you'll no doubt be pleased to know that the disciplinary action against you is almost done. Unfortunately, you may find this last bit even more disagreeable than anything so far." Her whimpers became louder and more pleading when he said this, as she couldn't imagine anything worse than what she already gone through. "But before we get to that, I'd like to review what you've learned this morning. First of all, you understand that you're expected to be a team player around here, right?" "Mmm hmm," she managed to respond. "Ms. Curtis, when you answer a superior, we'd prefer you to say 'Yes, sir' or 'No, sir' do you understand?" "Effur," came her pitiable reply. "Good. Now as a team player, we expect you to take the needs of your co-workers into account when you dress for work, right?" "Effur." "And- Oh wait, I almost forgot we still had those binder clips on you. They're probably starting to sting a bit by now. Here let me take them off." As he did so, she wailed loudly in pain, as the blood rushed back into her tortured nipples. "Now as I was saying, you should have a good idea by now of what your clothing should consist of. So, for example, to accommodate your coworkers' need to see more of your legs, you should wear what, Ms. Curtis?"
The Lecture, Chapter 4
She struggled to form words through her packed mouth. "Orz irz?"
"Yes, short skirts. And to shape your legs better, what should you have on your feet?"
"I eelz."
"Yes, high heels. Excellent, Ms. Curtis. You're doing fine. And by the way, we'll allow you to wear heels as low as a two and a half inches on 'casual' days. But no less than three and a quarter inches all other days. And lastly, up on top, Ms. Curtis?"
By now, Jan was dripping sweat from the stress on her limbs, and beginning to hyperventilate. Still she managed to eek out a response as she desperately sought to bring her ordeal to a close. "Hoe eeffij?" she mumbled.
Mr. Johnson chuckled lightly. "OK, Ms. Curtis, I guess 'show cleavage' will do for now. Just remember to keep up that 'team player' spirit and you could easily win the monthly 'team player' award."
He got up and went to the podium again. "And that brings us to the last part of this meeting," he said addressing the audience as well as Ms. Curtis. "I'll draw ten personnel numbers from this bowl, one for each of Ms. Curtis's frivolous sexual harassment complaints. The ten men I randomly pick will join Ms. Curtis and myself in the stock room for an intensive afternoon of hands-on experience with real sexual harassment. This will give Ms. Curtis the insight she needs to distinguish actual harassment from now on."
One by one, Mr. Johnson picked numbers from the bowl, and the men selected rose and came eagerly up to the stage. One of the lucky fellows was Mike who hadn't even read the memo. "Some guys have all the luck," muttered Gary as Mike scampered up to the stage.
That afternoon, Ms. Curtis became intimately familiar with all manner of sexual harassment. The group of men used her body over and over for hours, demonstrating as many variations as they could think of. When, at last, it was time to go home, she lay limp as a used rag. Her limbs felt useless from their hours of stringent bondage. She was sore all over, but especially her abused cunt, tits, ass, and mouth. She offered no resistance when the men dressed her in a spare suit of clothing, and led her down to her car. Mr. Johnson courteously offered to drive her home, but she said she'd manage. He told her to take the next day off, and left her with a Victoria's Secret catalog, saying simply "Use it."
Two weeks later, Ms. Janice Curtis, expert legal counsel for the company, sat in her office. She wore a short form-fitting black dress from Victoria's Secret. The low-cut neckline revealed her new, wonder bra-enhanced, cleavage. A garter belt held up her black, seamed stockings. Her long blonde hair flowed freely to her shoulders. Her face and lips were painted with makeup which she was becoming more and more adept at applying. And she had learned to walk gracefully in her three and a half inch pumps so quickly, that many of her colleagues were urging her to try four inch. It was a suggestion she knew she would have to accept soon.
She looked at her computer screen, having logged into her bank account. Even with payday another week away and deducting for the cost of dozens of ruined ties, it was several thousand dollars larger, after her unanimous selection as "Team Player of the Month." In retrospect, it had been easy money. She glanced at her calendar, which was filled with "team player" meetings with various members of the executive staff. Thinking about the large monetary awards, she was determined to be "Team Player" every month.
Just then, her phone rang, causing her to jump nervously. It was Mr. Johnson on the other end. "Ms. Curtis, drop whatever you're doing and come to my office immediately. I need you to be a team player right now!"
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," she answered. Heaving a sigh, she rubbed her wrists which still bore rope marks from her meeting a few minutes ago with Mr. Ferguson. She pulled a couple of binder clips from her desk drawer, rose from her chair, straightened her dress, and strode toward the hallway.
As she walked down the hall, her heels clicking loudly with each step, she held her head high, buoyed by the sound of her own confident stride. Every man and many of the women she passed commented, sometimes crudely, about her tight dress, or whistled at her. Many patted her ass, and asked when she could fit them into her calendar. She nodded and smiled at her coworkers as they called out to her, and shrank away coyly when they reached out to touch her.
As she approached the door to Mr. Johnson's office, she took a deep breath. "It's a living," she thought to herself, as she opened the door and went in.
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========== The Lecture ========== | ||