Miss Leroux Ch. 01 - Clemont's Cow

"Good afternoon, Miss Leroux." The president's gaze penetrated her. His hands were laced formally upon his desk, his posture straight but relaxed. He must've been well into his 40s, yet had a class and composure and rugged physique to him that left him quite handsome. He had matted pitch black hair, olive skin and piercing green eyes, with thick, sleek eyebrows above. He had aged like fine wine. He wore a business casual that some would say was unsuited to his quite formal position as university President, but noone was in any position to contest him.

"Good afternoon, President Clemont," Miss Leroux responded, in her delicate and sonorous voice. She always sounded just a bit flustered, especially when speaking with her superiors, but that's what Clemont liked about her. Her vulnerability attracted him. Not to mention she was easy on the eyes, that didn't hurt either: her dark chocolate hair was all done up in that intentionally messy way, styled into a lob with wispy bangs. Her lips were plump, soft, and beige. And though whoever she happened to be talking with would try to ignore it, her vuluptuous round breasts pushed tightly against her the constraint of her tucked in champagne-linen blouse; even with a bra and her blouse bearing no open cleavage, her buxom chest bulged out, quite well delineated.

As she stood before Clemont, however, his favor of her held no prominence in his mind.

"Take a seat."

Miss Leroux hesitated, but found herself approaching his desk and sitting down in one of the chairs in front of it (though she first ran her dainty hands over her pencil-skirt's bottom to smooth it out).

"Is something the matter?" Miss Leroux asked quite frankly. Her blue eyes shone with gentle innocence.

"Miss Leroux," the president reprimanded. "I do not want you to speak unless spoken to. This is a very serious matter. And so you will sit and listen."

Miss Leroux, did not go by "Miss Leroux," as she was actually a professor (in her mid thirties at that). To be called as much, as if she was a little girl, felt condescending. Yet little Miss Leroux obeyed. She meekly sealed her lips, not only because this man's authoritative tone commanded her, but because the guilt came seeping in, straining her brow; she knew exactly what this was about.

Clemont noted the change in her expression, and continued. He set a tape recorder upon the desk, before promptly pressing "record."

"Be assured, Miss Leroux. We already have extensive incriminating evidence against you, which I will be glad to show you. Even if charges aren't pressed, we have the grounds to fire you." Miss Leroux's heartbeat began to pace faster. Her career was in jeopardy. Clemont continued.

"We don't need a confession nor care if you confess. This recording will instead serve as university documentation in deciding where to go next with you."

The woman voiced no objections, even if she had any. She simply sat there like a child who was being reprimanded for misbehaving, giving an ashamed nod of understanding.

"Miss Leroux, have you ever been married?"

She hesitated a moment, before answering truthfullly. "I haven't."

"Then you have no objections to being called Miss Leroux."

Miss Leroux wondered if she was being allowed to honestly respond, but after a moment of silence concluded as much and began meekly. "If it is alright, I would prefer if you called me Professo-"

"Miss Leroux, you being a Professor here is what is at stake. We will not be referring to you as a Professor." Miss Leroux blushed with embarrassment. "Now, you have not been married. Is 'Miss Leroux' an acceptable title?"

Miss Leroux sat in shameful silence, before responding, "...Yes."

"Yes 'sir,'" Clemont sternly corrected.

"Yes sir," she followed, looking visibly guiltier; the graveness of this situation has apparently made him less lenient about his "sir"s than usual.

"Miss Leroux, if I'm not mistaken, not long ago, you underwent an abortion. Correct?"

"Yes, sir." She fidgeted apprehensively with the hem of her skirt.

"So you went and got yourself impregnated." Leroux cringed shamefully at the demeaning language. It was like a pastor reprimanding some naive whore. "Do you care to explain who it was that bred you, Miss Leroux?" 'Bred?' She was being referred to as an animal now. Her face flushed red, and she gushed out anxiously, "But I thought you said it wasn't my confession!"

"It is not," Clemont responded. "It is an assessment of your character, specifically your honesty. So if you would like to keep your job, I would suggest you stop whining like a child."

At his attack, Miss Leroux felt intimidated and shrunk in her seat. "Y-yes sir," she stammered out quickly.

"Answer the question. Tell me who exactly you screwed, Miss Leroux."

Miss Leroux looked down at the ground in shame, averting all eye contact. "...Antony Camille..."

"Louder."

"A-Antony Camille!" she whimpered loudly for the tape recorder.

"Good girl. You mean, you let our star student athlete breed you?"

Leroux was on the verge of tears. "Y-yes sir..."

"Say it. As I said it."

Leroux choked. "I... I let the star student athlete breed me."

"Miss Leroux, look at me." Miss Leroux slowly brought her shameful gaze up to meet Clemont's, her blue doe eyes shiny and wide.

"If you want to act like a slut, so be it. Take off your blouse."

Miss Leroux let out a little sob. "Mister Clemont, I can't-"

"Miss Leroux, don't you dare claim any pretensions of modestness. You are a whore. You're going to strip off your blouse and bra. And you're going to present your breasts like one."

Miss Leroux's crying continued, soft and ashamed. She obeyed. Button by button, her blouse came undone, her small fingers tugging its hem to untuck it from her pencil skirt. 3 buttons down, her heavy cleavage was showing, heaving lightly with each breath. A couple more buttons, and the blouse slipped off her shoulders. After the final buttons, the blouse fell off her back, and she was left in only her bra.

President Clemont extended his hand, demanding the blouse from her. She hesitated, holding it tightly for just a moment, before reluctantly giving it up to him. Then she crossed her arms defensively over her exposed cleavage, averting eye contact again and very red in the face.

"The brassiere, Miss Leroux."

Slowly, she reached behind her back, each passing moment dreading what was to come. Clip by clip, the brassiere came undone, until it finally popped off and slid down her torso into her hands. Her breasts were fully exposed now. Her pink-brown areolas, darkened from pregnancy, seemed to harden excitedly at the unexpected nudity, leaving Miss Leroux ashamed of her body's involuntary reaction.

Again, Clemont extended his hand to receive the bra, so she reluctantly obeyed, keeping one arm holding the fronts of her breasts to preserve some modesty while handing him the bra with the other.

"Now present. Hold each breast in each hand, like food on a platter."

Miss Leroux had never been in such a humiliating position in her life, and yet, she did not even think to object. Her face burned red as she submitted to his command, and held the underside of each breast in her palms, lifting them for the President to see. Given how full they were, they spilled over the ends of her hands. Her lip trmbled as she was forced to hold this degrading pose.

"You have a beautiful chest, Miss Leroux."

She felt a vain little flutter in her beart at the compliment, but said nothing.

"Say 'thank you,'" he said impatiently, displeased by her supposed lack of manners. Miss Leroux whimpered, before mewling out a small, "...Thank you, sir..."

"Good girl. Now, your brassiere is quite large. As are your udders, Miss Leroux. Care to explain why?"

Miss Leroux's meek little voice attempted to respond. "You see, I became p-pregnant, and so my breasts-"

"Don't kid yourself, Miss Leroux. Women have breasts. You let yourself be bred like an animal. Yours are udders. Now try again."

Miss Leroux's confidence and dignity were shattered. Her voice was barely a whisper now. "M-my 'udders...' are lactating, sir..."

"I see."

President Clemont rose from his desk, and made his way towards a nearby cabinet. "Miss Leroux, you are going to keep your job."

Despite everything that had just happened, Miss Leroux let out a sigh of relief. "And to do so, you are going to milk yourself." He set a tall, empty glass before her upon the desk, to her horror, before sitting himself back down, and leaning backwards.

"Go on. Fill the glass, Miss Leroux."

The mortified Leroux slowly let go of her own "udders," and with a trembling hand reached down to take hold of the glass. She forced herself to bring it up, close to her exposed nipple. And then, she squeezed, and a squirt of milk audibly sprayed upon the inside of the glass. Miss Leroux glanced anxiously up at Clemont, humiliated at having to do this in front of him and very aware that he was watching her. Yet, she continued. Another squeeze sprayed more milk into the glass, and then another. Once she got into the rhythm of it, she was kneading her breast from the base to the nipple. She couldn't believe she'd been a professor just a couple minutes ago.

"We would take no pride in employing the whore of a student," started President Clemont, with crossed arms. "In addressing this issue, others advised me that an abortion would have taught you your lesson. But I think a slut like you won't change. Even with a PhD, you let your wet cunt guide you. I would have you fired on the spot, but that would mean exposing and sacrificing Mr. Camille. So here's what we're going to do.

"You're going to keep your job. But you're being demoted. You'll keep teaching, but each week you will come back to my office, and I'll do as I please with you. If I'm going to have a filthy animal under my employ, then you're going to be reminded of your place, weekly, so you do not step out of line. Outwardly, you'll keep the title of Professor. But as long as you continue to work here, your real position will be as my Pet Cow."

Miss Leroux had stopped milking. She was mortified, the color was drained from her face. This was too far, even losing her job was not worth this, she needed to back out of this situation without making it dangerous.

But as if reading her mind, the President responded, "This isn't a choice, little Miss Leroux. If you refuse we will not only fire you, but you will be prosecuted for violation of contract. In sabotaging the academic integrity of this institution, you will become its legal enemy. Even if whatever defense you purchase can rival that of our investors' legal team, we will make sure this sticks in your record like a brand on the ass. I personally will make sure that you never find a job outside teaching middle schoolers, because I quite like the prospect of keeping you. Now, if you understand your position as my brand-new, sweet and stupid Pet Cow, you will say 'yes sir,' you will finish filling your glass, and you will 'moo' whilst you do."

Miss Leroux now realized the true gravity of her predicament. She began to cry, the despair sinking in. "...Yes, sir..." Miss Leroux whimpered.

And so the former professor resumed milking her own breasts into a glass, switching from the left to the right now, and as she did, she let out soft, ridiculous little "Moooo"s, which sounded nothin short of adorable in her gentle voice.

President Clemont sat back and watched, taking great joy out of seeing Miss Leroux degrade herself willingly for him.

Soon enough, the glass was full. Miss Leroux looked meekly up at her new owner for intructions.

"Now drink it all down."

Miss Leroux's eyes widened. She looked down at the glass. Then slowly, she brought it up to her lips, and began to drink, tears streaming down her cheeks. The tangy milk of her own breasts ran down her throat, tasting oddly refreshing and delicious. The full glass of milk filled up her belly, and just like that, she set the empty glass upon the desk, and looked down at the floor in shame.

"That's a good cow," Clemont mocked. "Would you like to leave? Bounce your udders up and down for yes, shake them side to side for no."

Miss Leroux's face was bright red at the ridiculous demand that she degrade herself like that. And yet, she did; after barely a moment's hesitation, she bounced up on the toes of her high heels, jumping up enough for her large, jiggling breasts to dance up and down hypnotically for President Clemont.

"Alright. Would you like your clothes back, Miss Leroux?"

Again, this time with less hesitation, Miss Leroux willingly humiliated herself in bouncing her breasts affirmatively for him.

"Which garment would you like? Yes for brassiere, no for blouse."

Miss Leroux shouldn't have expected any differently, yet her face turned pale at being told she must choose. She thought it over for a moment, before twisting her hips and torso side to side, like she was doing a little dance-- while making her breasts swing violently left and right.

So Clemont stood with blouse in hand, and gently patted Miss Leroux on the side of her face. "Open your mouth." She did, and he placed a hem of the blouse between her teeth.

"Now get the hell out of my office, cow. Shoo, shoo," he brushed her off, like she was a stupid animal that had wandered in. And yet she obeyed, quickly turning around, and frantically putting on the blouse as she made her way to the office door. (Without her brassiere, the milk of her recently lactating "udders" stained little brown puddles into the front of the linen blanket, right at her nipples.) Clemont watched her round behind sway in its tight pencil skirt as she left.

It was like that, with no bra and milk wetting her blouse, that she had to walk out of the building, officially having earned her new job, the President's "Pet Cow." And yet even so-- and even though she cursed herself for it-- she could feel the heat between her thighs, in having been made into the sexual property of this powerful DILF of a man.