Industrial Relations

That the profession of engineering was a man's world, was a view that Peter Troy had always held, though rarely given voice to. It was not an opinion formed by some misogynistic instinct, but rather one that had evolved over time; stretching from his school days in metalwork class, though his engineering degree, to his eleven years as an engineer in various companies throughout England and Scotland. Women and heavy machinery simply didn't mix.

He did encounter women on occasion; there were a handful of women in his university course, though he had discovered that few had pursued traditional engineering jobs in later life. Women were, in practice, a rarity which made the situation which he now found himself in, more uncomfortable.

His company distributed and maintained precision machine tools. The company, on whose shop floor he was now standing, had once been a well-regarded-if-small, family-owned engineering company, but to Peter, it seemed it was reaching the end of the line.

The owner had died after a protracted illness, and several years of weak management had allowed the company to drift. Much of the machinery on the shop floor stood idle, more was being operated by barely trained staff. Peter could tell that they were contract workers, badly paid and disinterested. One harried-looking supervisor constantly moved between machines checking settings, that the operators should have been able to do themselves. Trained operators cost more money though, and Peter guessed that they were a victim of company cost cutting.

As Peter examined several pieces of equipment that his company owned, he was dismayed to find that they weren't properly calibrated, but it was a moot point, as he was here to remove them.

"Mr Troy, I would ask you to reconsider," a woman's voice said, from behind his shoulder. It was Helen March, the youngest daughter of the firm's previous owner, who had somehow become its new managing director. Although not for long Peter suspected, as bankruptcy was looming.

Earlier that morning, Peter had done some research online on her. She was 26, and actually had a degree in engineering from Peter's old university. She was also incredibly attractive, and Peter sensed that she was very aware of this--she had a certain cockiness about her. The five-foot-six redhead, with her hair tied up into a tight bun, wore a severe-looking suit, with the blouse buttoned up to her throat, and skirt below the knee. He knew she had an athletic and toned body from some pictures he'd found online of her competing in athletics, she was also a keen women's soccer player. She seemed a bit flat chested to Peter, which was the only disappointing aspect of her entire body.

"There's nothing to consider, Ms March." Peter emphasized the 'Ms'. "My company has instructed me to supervise the return of any of our machinery, for which payment has not been made."

"I let you into the factory this morning as a courtesy, Mr Troy," she said, her tone changing from pleading to challenging. "If you are going to repossess any piece of equipment, then you need to go through the courts and have a bailiff remove it."

Peter smiled. "That's not quite true. However, even if I were to leave the machinery here, all that would happen is that it would get tied up in the inevitable bankruptcy proceedings." Her face sank, as he continued, "Also, look at the settings--this machine hasn't been calibrated correctly. It hasn't happened yet, but eventually, it will get damaged, damage that you will be personally liable for." That last bit wasn't entirely true, but she looked suitably deflated.

He tried to make his tone a little kinder, as he gestured at the components the machine was milling, "All of the tolerances on those will be out, the material will fail any sort of rigorous, quality-control inspection, you're just wasting the steel."

She looked crestfallen as she said, "We've had a lot of staff leave over the last few months, the ones that have stayed, aren't able to keep up."

Peter shrugged; he had seen it happen before, to so many companies. They got in trouble, then slashed wages and staff, losing too many key people to survive. Though it was unusual in Peter's experience, to have an actual engineer in charge, rather than some asshole with a degree in management or marketing, that didn't understand what happened on the shop floor.

Suddenly, her mood perked up. "Can you re-calibrate the machines?" she asked.

Peter laughed, "No."

"Can't, or won't?"

Peter was insulted. Of course he knew how to calibrate them. "Won't!" he said, emphatically.

"And if you wanted to, could you leave the machinery here, and explain to your company, that you're confident that we'll make our payments at the beginning of the next quarter?"

"Again, I won't be doing that!"

"Are you familiar with the other machinery we've got here?" she asked, ignoring his replies.

He looked around, even the machinery not supplied by his company was generic, and his pride caused him to nod in reply, still not quite sure where she was going.

"Could you teach me how to set up and calibrate them myself? Also, I'd like to be able to do some repairs on them. I've been reading through the technical docs, but it would be quicker if I had someone to show me."

Peter was getting annoyed. "I have no interest in teaching you the fundamentals of how to run a factory, Ms March."

She ignored him again; she had perked up. "You were right. We have been having quality-control issues. Some of our customers are withholding payment, until we can show that we've rectified them; I've hired consultants, but they haven't been able to identify where the problems are."

Peter laughed. It was obvious to him where the quality-control issues were--the consultants were either incompetent, or just looking to milk their contract for as much as they could. "Were these the same consultants that told you to slash wages and hire contract workers?"

She got annoyed again, but just carried on, "Can you identify where the quality-control issues are, and help me to put a temporary fix on them, until I can get trained workers?"

He was puzzled by now, but his ego wouldn't let him say no. "I can fix your quality-control issues, at least temporarily, but I won't."

She looked deep in thought, as she said, "It's Friday today, so it's ideal. Do you think the weekend will be long enough to calibrate the machinery, and teach me everything else I need to know?"

"I'm not going to do that," Peter said, emphatically. He wondered if she thought she could simply hire him to do it. "I don't need another job, Ms March."

She laughed for the first time. "My brothers took nearly every penny out of this business for their inheritances. What was left I ended up spending on those fucking consultants, so offering you money to change your mind--isn't really an option at this stage."

For the first time, Peter started to feel for her; at least she was trying to save a business in tough times, even if it was doomed to failure. But still, he had no interest in bailing her out.

"So," she continued, "I don't have the money to pay you enough to stay, but if you'll excuse me a moment, I will come back with an offer." With that, she turned and walked off.

The few minutes she was gone, were just long enough to allow Peter's sense of puzzlement and annoyance to grow. He had the sense she was playing him, her certainty and the way she felt comfortable ignoring his emphatic refusals, was annoying him.

When she returned, she asked him to walk with her to the loading dock. He was going to object, but she was already off walking.

When they reached the loading dock, she turned around suddenly. "Here," she said, holding her hand out.

As he took them from her hand, he realized they were a pair of knickers, white with a blue band; they were obviously modelled on men's briefs, and Peter remembered them being called 'boxies'.

He stared at her for a moment, and she met his gaze directly. "I'm not wearing a bra, or you could have had that, as well."

"I don't have any interest in your underwear," Peter said, astonished.

"Are you sure?" Helen said simply, "Look, you know what I want from you; if you help, then I'm all yours." She looked determined. "My idiot brothers milked this company for every penny they could get; it's been in my family for eighty years, and I won't let it die."

Peter shook his head and moved to walk away, but he noticed he still had her knickers in his hand. When he turned back, he saw her undoing her skirt; he said nothing as it fell to the floor. Her blouse barely stretched past her hips. Without saying anything, she unbuttoned it and let it spread open. The obviously tiny mounds of her breasts were still covered, but her cunt was exposed. Completely hairless, he wondered whether she shaved or waxed it.

"So what's your answer?" she asked.

He stretched his hand out, and parted her blouse. Her breasts fascinated him; they were little more than mounds, A cups, he guessed. Yet, they were pert and suited her slender and athletic frame. As he stroked her nipples, she seemed embarrassed for the first time. He wondered if her breasts somehow embarrassed her; she seemed far more comfortable flashing her cunt at him. He felt himself grow hard.

She looked down at his growing bulge, and raised an eyebrow. "So, do we have a deal?" she asked.

"I wouldn't be so cocky, if I were you," Peter said archly. "I'm not going to be manipulated by you."

She said nothing, but a flash, of what Peter took to be vulnerability and hurt, came across her face. She turned around and picked up her skirt.

As she started to put it on, he said, "Wait."

She stopped, and turned to look at him. He still had her knickers in his hand; she saw that he was clenching them tightly. The erection in his trousers was starting to become uncomfortable.

"Put these back on," he said, handing her back her knickers.

She didn't say anything, as she slid them back on. He wondered if she felt a little bit more comfortable, now that she wasn't so exposed to him. He liked the look of the knickers on her; while undoubtedly attractive and feminine, she had a kind-of-tomboyish look to her.

"Were you going to let me fuck you here?" he asked, gesturing to the loading dock.

"If I had to," she admitted.

"Why here?" he asked.

She shrugged. "It's quiet. The offices upstairs are busy, and people could probably guess what we were doing with the blinds closed." She looked around. "Besides, I like it here; it's nice to have a quiet place to gather your thoughts."

"That the loading dock is so quiet, is probably not a good sign for a business," Peter said archly.

She smiled in response. "I try to see the positive." She looked at him again. "Now what?" she asked.

"Take your shirt off," he said.

She obeyed silently. It was only then that he realised she still had her shoes on, which he asked her to remove next. In the end, she stood there in just her knickers, wearing a nonchalant expression.

"Do we have a deal?" she asked.

"No," he said. "I'm not making deals with you."

She looked annoyed.

But then he continued, "If at any stage, I'm unhappy--I leave. If I'm happy to stay, then I will. I'm not making any commitments."

She nodded silently in acknowledgement.

"Bend over that pallet," he said, gesturing to one that was stacked with boxes to about his waist height. He still expected her to start objecting or negotiating at some stage, but she did as he asked; although, she stopped to pick up her purse, which she had laid on top of the boxes, before she bent over. She had to hop up on it, her legs draped down, but her toes barely touched the ground. There was a touching element of vulnerability to the position.

He felt more confidant, now that she was facing away from him. He did not feel comfortable in these surroundings, as it was her factory, however she had come by it. He felt like an intruder.

Still fascinated by her knickers, he slid his hand under the elastic and between her legs. After stroking the outside of her cunt, he started to try and work his fingers inside her. She was dry and tight, and he struggled to get a finger inside her. Her labia were not exposed like most women that he'd been with, rather they were tucked neatly inside, making the outside of her cunt feel almost smooth. The knickers were close fitting, so he pushed them down her thighs, just far enough to allow him better access.

He didn't know how far to push her, where her limits might be. He couldn't see her face; she had her head up, but it looked as if she was simply staring directly ahead at the wall. Her hands were holding on to the far side of the pallet.

He continued to fondle and finger her cunt. Almost by accident, he brushed a finger between her cheeks and felt the puckered ring of her asshole. He hesitated for a minute, surely she'd object if he touched her there, he thought. He parted her cheeks and then brushed the outside of her asshole again with his thumb, more firmly this time. She said nothing. He pushed against the outside of her asshole, but it wouldn't give way. When he tried again with his index finger, he saw her asshole clench up, as if to keep his finger out; he wondered if she was doing it intentionally.

He started to try to work his finger into her asshole; any second expecting to hear her protest.

"Wait," she said, suddenly.

He pulled himself away, feeling an urge to run, cursing himself for going too far. He didn't know how she would react, but he didn't expect her to calmly reach into her purse and pull out a small bottle. She poured some onto her hand, and without looking back, reached between her legs and rubbed some into her cunt. He watched as she not only rubbed it outside, but slid her fingers into herself, to work it in.

He thought she saw her hesitate for a moment, before she poured more into her hand. He didn't breathe, as he watched her repeat the process with her asshole, slipping her fingers into her ass, to work in what he now knew to be oil.

"Do you like anal sex?" he asked.

"No," she said simply.

"Then, why...?" he started to ask a question, but stopped, lost for words.

She looked back at him expressionless. "I don't enjoy it. I'm not arguing the point; you can fuck me that way, if you want." she continued to look at him. "I'd prefer if you'd fuck me normally, or I can use my mouth." The matter-of-fact tone of her voice also had an element of hope.

Peter was gobsmacked, but he heard the words come out of his mouth, as if a buried instinct, had insisted on making the decision for him. "I want to fuck your arse," he said, quietly. He had never fucked a woman anally before. He had never been with a woman where he felt it was an option. It was something he'd only ever experienced through porn.

Still, he couldn't read her expression; she turned her head back to face the wall. Then, he saw her reach back and pull her arse cheeks; he watched as she spread them farther apart, which served to open her asshole slightly.

He reached his finger out and this time, his index finger slid in with little resistance. His cock was bursting, and he wanted it inside her.

He undid his trousers and freed his cock; he could see glistening drops of pre-cum. He shuffled forward and placed it against her asshole. She spread her cheeks wider. Then he pushed, and the tip started to slide in. He stepped into his next thrust, and the head of his cock was in. As his shaft was sliding into her arse, he heard her gasp quietly.

He'd never felt anything like it in his life. The tightness was exquisite; he'd never imagined it would feel like this. Looking down, he could see his cock disappearing into her arse, which caused almost as intense a feeling.

Helen kept her arse cheeks pulled apart. His cock slid deeper, so that he was nearly all the way in. Then he felt a spasm inside her, he would realise later, that she was pushing back against him. It was too much, and he felt himself empty inside her. While he was disappointed that it was over so quickly, he was not surprised; he suspected that Helen was glad that it was over. He held himself in her for a time; he wasn't sure how long. She released her arse cheeks, and her hands went back to their original position by her head.

He found he respected her for how she'd taken it. He wasn't going to fool himself into thinking she'd enjoyed it. She hadn't cried or cajoled or tried to play him, she'd simply let him fuck her how he wanted, without complaint--exactly as she said she would. There were few enough people in this world, who would honour their commitments that way.

He pulled his cock out of her carefully. He motioned that he wanted her to stay bent over. With his hands, he parted her cheeks again and watched how her asshole, distended after being penetrated, started to clench up. He saw a slight trail of semen start to seep out; which surprised him, as he thought he'd ejaculated too deeply inside her. Anal sex was a new experience for him.

He put his cock away and did his trousers up. "I'm finished now," he said. He watched as she stood up. She stood there a moment, and then pulled her knickers up.

"Do you mind if I get dressed?" she asked.

"No, go ahead."

He watched as she dressed, putting back on the severe-looking skirt and blouse.

"On second thought," he said. "I'll keep the knickers."

_______________