Emily’s New Job Pt. 05

One morning, Mr. Potts asks me to step into his office. "Do you have a minute, Emily?" he says. "There's something I want to talk to you about."

Mr. Potts is the principal attorney at the law firm where I've worked for the past few months. He's a kindly gentleman in his sixties, with a gray beard and horn-rimmed glasses. I follow him into the office; he closes the door behind us.

"I get so busy sometimes that I forget to ask my staff how they're doing," he says. "Is everything okay, Emily?"

"Yes, Mr. Potts."

"Still enjoying the job? I'm not working you too hard, am I?"

"Not at all. The job has been great."

"Things going alright at home?"

"Everything is fine," I lie. Things are definitely not going alright at home. In fact, I'm on the brink of divorce. "Why do you ask, Mr. Potts?"

He studies me for a moment.

"It's just that you've seemed a little ... different, lately, Emily." He chooses his words carefully. "I just wanted to make sure everything is alright."

I blush terribly and stare into my lap. I know exactly what he means. When he hired me, I was a typical middle aged suburban mom. Forty-five years old, pretty face, conservative dresser, chubby.

Everything changed after I met Tom, a young lawyer at the firm. With his encouragement, I've changed my entire look. New hairdo, more makeup, tighter clothes. My coworkers take note. The men stare. A few make flirtatious comments. The women gossip and give me dirty looks.

I'm mortified, but I have no choice. Tom has amassed a large cache of pornographic pictures and video. He threatens to send them to my husband or, most alarmingly, son at college if I don't do what he says. I'll do anything to keep that from happening.

"Really Mr. Potts, everything is fine." I force a smile, to reassure him.

"In that case," he says, "there's something *else* I'd like to talk to you about."

Mr. Potts tells me that he will be retiring at the end of the month. He's had a few investments mature sooner than expected, and his wife is eager to move closer to the grandkids. The firm has already backfilled his position with a new hire.

I get a little choked up. Partly because I've grown fond of my boss these past few months. But also because I'm worried. Mr. Potts' presence has been the only thing that's kept the blackmail from getting fully out of hand.

"Congratulations," I manage to tell him. "I'm so happy for you and your wife."

"Thank you Emily. I appreciate that. And I don't want you to worry about your job at all. We have a succession plan in place. We're going to make Tom a partner and transfer you over to him."

The room spins. I can feel the floor drop out from beneath me.

"I've noticed the great chemistry you seem to have with Tom," Mr. Potts adds. "It seemed like a natural fit."

***

On a Friday night, the company holds a happy hour at a cocktail lounge not far from the office, to congratulate Tom on his promotion.

It's late, and nearly everyone has left except for a handful of young, hard-drinking attorneys. I wear my black hair in Betty Boop curls. My fingernails are painted a glossy red, to match my lipstick. I'm wearing a variation of the 'sexy secretary' type outfits that Tom likes. Snug white sweater, shirt plaid skirt, shiny black pumps. My breasts strain against buttons of the sweater and bulge lewdly at the plunging neckline

The men are all at least fifteen years my junior. They crowd around me, making lewd innuendoes and openly ogling my chest. I bat my eyes and giggle girlishly in reply. They've been plying me with alcohol all night and Tom spiked my last cocktail with his special drug. He calls it The Juice: a powerful narcotic that makes the user unbearably horny and open to suggestion. My nipples are stiff. A slow warmth runs up my inner thighs.

From across the room I see Tom chatting with a stranger at the bar. The men push their way through the crowd and Tom hands me a fresh cocktail.

"I brought you another drink."

He gives me a wolfish grin. Tom is undeniably good-looking, with sandy brown hair, two-day stubble and a lean, cyclist's build. Despite the blackmail, I can't help but find him attractive. Especially when I'm drugged.

"I'm not sure I should have another ..." I tell him. My speech is badly slurred.

"Nonsense! You're *much* more fun when you're drunk," he says. "Now take your medicine like a big girl, Em."

I sip my drink. The cocktail is cold and sweet and goes right to my head.

"I've got someone I want you to meet." Tom gestures to the stranger beside him. "Emily, this is Keith, our new hire. He starts Monday."

Keith is blandly handsome in a clean cut, catalogue ready way. His dark hair is neatly parted to the side. He wears a navy blue suit, tie loosened, and a gold wedding band. He's a little taller but has none of Tom's charm.

"Keith, this is my new assistant, Emily Pritchett," Tom says. "But we all just call her Mrs. Bigtits."

Keith chuckles.

"I can see why," he says, leering at my cleavage.

"Yep. Emily just loves to show her big fat melon tits off," Tom says. "Isn't that right Em?"

I blush horribly and nod.

"I said, isn't that right, Em?" Tom repeats.

"Yes ..." I stare at the floor.

"Yes, WHAT?"

Tom gives me a stern look. He's going to make me say it. The bastard.

"I love to show off my ... my ... big, f-fat melon tits ..." I mutter, choking on the words.

The men all chortle.

"I'd like to see that ..." the new guy enthuses.

"Oh yeah?" Tom says. "I've got a few pictures. I'm sure Em won't mind if you take a peek ..."

Before I can protest, he's scrolling through a photo gallery on his iPhone.

"Here's a good one," he says, holding his phone so the men can see.

In the picture, I'm lying on my back on satin sheets. My pillowy breasts are spackled with cum and I squeeze them together with my arms and blow a kiss to the camera, in a pinup pose.

The men - my coworkers - crowd in to gawk at the pic. I'm mortified.

"Whoa," one of them says. "What a set of hammers ..."

"Not bad for an older lady."

"Mrs. Bigtits may be old, but she's got one hell of a rack," Tom quips. "And she'll do anything in the sack, no matter how degrading. Isn't that right Em?"

My clothes feel hot and ill-fitted. My pussy is practically throbbing.

"I said, 'Isn't that right, Em?'"

"Yes ..." I gasp. "I'll do anything in bed ... no matter how ... d-degrading ..."

Tom chuckles and pats my rear.

"She *especially* loves sucking cock," he says. "Young cock."

"I *love* sucking young cock ..." I coo, without any prompting this time.

The new guy laughs.

"I've got a cock you can suck," he says.

"You're in luck," Tom says, taking my arm. "Mrs. Bigtits is sort of the company welcome wagon. Let's go somewhere more private so she can welcome you to the firm."

***

The men's bathroom smells like piss and the walls are covered in vulgar graffiti. Tom leads me in. The new guy and a small group of young lawyers follow. The last to enter bars the door.

All five stare at me for an awkward moment. The room seems to spin. I warble drunkenly in my shiny high heels. A wild range of emotions washes over me: fear, arousal, shame.

"Well?" Tom says. "Don't just stand there. Take your fuckin' clothes off!"

A sluttish smirk crosses my lips.

I slowly unbutton my sweater and fan it open. Underneath, my large breasts are encased in a lacy white bra with sturdy underwire. I unzip the skirt, push it down my wide hips and let it drop to the tiled floor. The thin straps of my matching panties rest high up on my muffin top hips. The men whistle and catcall, like we're in a low-rent strip club. "Plump and juicy!" one of them shouts.

Before Tom, I was self-conscious about my body. Sometimes I stood in front of the mirror after showering and picked at my flaws: my roundish tummy, the slight cellulite on my thighs, the droop to my breasts. Now high on Tom's wonder drug, I love showing my curves off.

I turn my back to the men. My thong vanishes between my big pale butt cheeks. I cast a saucy look over my shoulder and unclasp my bra.

"That is one big, fat ass, Em!"

"Let's see them titties, Mom!"

I smile and slide the bra off my shoulders. Then I turn, baring my huge, saggy tits to the room. My areoles are the size of silver dollars and the color of bubble gum. My nipples are thick and long with a slight upward peak. My breasts are milky white and pale, aside from a dark birthmark on the left side of my cleavage.

"Christ almighty ..." one of the men gasps.

"What a set of udders."

Tom's drug surges through my veins. I giggle moronically and squeeze my breasts together with my arms so they bulge lewdly, repeating my cheesecake pose from the picture.

He grins, relishing my humiliation.

"That's a real good girl Em," he says. "Time to welcome Keith to the firm."

***

I sit on the toilet in the large handicapped stall and unzip the new guy's pants. Tom and the others crowd the doorway to watch. I tug the Keith's trousers and briefs down to his knees. His oily prick springs free. It's fat and deeply veined, already hard. I squeeze it just beneath the turtleneck and plant a soft kiss on the swollen plum head.

"Please don't tell my husband I did this," I coo.

The new guy chuckles.

"Don't worry," he says. "I won't." He coils his hand in my hair and pulls my head toward his cock.

I take his cock into my mouth and immediately blow him in long, smooth strokes, from head to base. For a few moments the only noises are wet sucking sounds and the new guy's contented gasps and sighs. Then Tom breaks the silence.

"See fellas? What did I tell you," he says. He holds his phone aloft, taking pictures of this grotesque show. His face is bright red, plainly aroused. "Mrs. Bigtits only met the new guy ten minutes ago and she's already sucking his cock."

I fondle a tit and bat my eyes at the camera. I turn my head so that Tom can see his the prick prod the inside of my cheek. I drool over the new guy's sack and fondle his balls, pressing the tip of my middle finger to his asshole. I make the sort of of exaggerated delicious noises that Tom likes: Mmmmmghh ... nghhh .... mffff ...

The men watch in slack-jawed disbelief.

"What a pig ..." one of them says.

"Does your husband know he married a slut?" another adds.

I use my hand as an extension of my mouth, jerking the new guy off while I blow him. He grunts out loud, thrusting his hips in time with my bobbing head. His breath goes ragged. I can tell he's close.

"Thaaaat's it you hot MILF plumper ... suck it!" Tom says. "Get that cock juice! Take it all over your pretty face! Filthy toilet whore!"

The new guy croaks and his cock spasms. I swallow the first few squirts, then flop his prick out of my mouth and tug it furiously. It's a massive load, salty and warm. He shoots ropes of jizz across my face, over my breasts, up into my hair. I moan out loud and flinch with each spurt.

When he's finished, I'm spackled with jizz. My legs are splayed, one hand down the front of my panties, toying my slit. With the other, I smear the new guy's custard over my breasts and finger it into my mouth.

Tom leers down at me, triumphant.

"Well fellas," he says, "who's next?"

***

It's past 2 a.m. when the men drop me off at home but the lights are still on in my house. Tom lets me out at the curb and the men speed off, chortling and laughing: "See you Monday, Mrs. Bigtits!"

I stagger drunkenly up the walk. My lipstick is smeared across my mouth, eyeliner running down my cheeks. There are cum stains on my clothes and dried into my hair. My bra went missing. My unsupported breasts strain against the buttons of my sweater. My breath stinks of booze and strange dick.

My husband Philip has wire-framed glasses, a receding hairline and a middle aged paunch. He confronts me at the door, shouting questions: "Where the hell were you? Why didn't you reply to my texts? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

I tell him I was out with friends and didn't see his messages.

"Friends? What friends?"

"New friends." I giggle. "You don't know them."

He goes on ranting for a while. It's all I can do to keep from laughing at his little tantrum. I've lost all respect for my husband. Deep down I know that Philip would never have the balls to put me in my place. He's a soft, effeminate little wimp.

Not at all like Tom.