A familiar face

Walking from Jeremy's cramped back office down the short narrow hall to the front, you feel like you're floating. Not in a light, breezy way, not high or euphoric, but like you're simply disconnected from reality. How can this be real? How can this be you? Without being able to look down and see your manager's jizz splattered over your shirtless chest, without being able to smell and feel it sticking to your flushed face, you could almost convince yourself it was a dream. It's simply not possible that you would have willingly got in Jeremy's lap, grinded on him, jerked him with your tits while he insulted and degraded you, and enjoyed all of it?

That could not have happened. That's not you.

But the fact that it did happen is undeniable, and now your idea of who you are is falling to pieces with every breath you take. The revolting smell of Jeremy's ejaculate fills your awareness, pulling your mind back to everything you did, everything you allowed him to do. The feeling of his clammy skin permeates your body, disgusting you, making you disgusted with yourself for going along with it. The memory of his words, his insults and commands and your willingness to go along with them, echo in your head, over and over again, until you almost miss the sound. A small part of you wants to turn around and beg Jeremy to spit in your face again, because you know you deserve it.

Instead, you allow your feet to carry you back to the front, floating along until you reach the counter. Your eyes had been downcast, but you **** them to look up and see who you're about to make a sandwich for. See who's seeing you, shirtless and cumstained and crumbling into a pathetic wreck of self-loathing. Wait, you've seen that face before. Where...

"Hello there, pretty girl."

It all comes rushing back. The bushy mustache, the teamsters jacket, the thinning grey-black hair. Don. Don who just wanted to have a nice chat with the pretty girl on the bus. Don, who called you a little bitch for enforcing your boundaries. And now he's here, seeing just what you've become since you pushed his arm off your shoulder and walked to work. A small, quiet part of you knows you should be mortified to be seen by him. But instead, all you feel is... warm.

"H-hello, sir." Your weak, trembling voice sounds so unlike you in your ears. "How c-can I help you?"

Don just smiles at you, his eyes twinkling as he takes in the sight of your pathetic form. "Well there, looks like you finally got the attitude adjustment you needed." His eyes wander over your cum-splattered chest, rising up to take in the cum on your face. "I thought you'd look prettier with a little makeup, but this is even better." He chuckles to himself. "Now then, how about you start with an apology."

You feel a little warmer. "A... a what?"

"An apology. You asked how you could help me, and I'm telling you. I can see you're a little slow, so I'll spell it out. Say 'I'm sorry for being a bitch, sir.' Think you can remember all that?"

Your breaths are shallow as your mind tries to process what's happening. The echo of who you were wants to ball your fists, scowl, scream, do fucking anything about this condescending asshole. Instead, your mouth opens and you push out the words "I'm... I'm sorry for... b-being a b-b-bitch, sir."

Don leans in and cocks his ear toward you. "Speak up, girl. Those big rig engines have my hearing all shot to hell. Say it again, nice and loud."

This is too much. You know that. But that knowledge just makes that warmth inside you pulse and throb. That warmth adds strength to your voice. "I'm sorry for being a bitch, sir." How... how could I let this happen?

Don's smile is showing teeth now. Uneven, tobacco-stained teeth. "That's better. I accept your apology. Now ask me nicely to make me a sandwich."

You feel the weight of his condescending voice crushing you with humiliation, but that crushing sensation just makes the warmth inside grow and grow. "C-can I please... can I please make you a sandwich, sir?"

His eyes lock onto yours. "Show me your tits, pretty girl. If I like 'em I'll let you make me a sandwich."

Your arms start moving, your hands reaching toward your bra. What... what the fuck am I doing? Despite your weak inner protest, you feel that warmth guide you. The idea of pleasing Don, earning his approval, makes the warmth shine and sparkle and you want it. You want more of whatever this is. Before you even realize what's happening, you've pulled your bra down so the cups are bunched awkwardly under your breasts.

Don's eyes narrow as they take in your achingly stiff nipples, and he licks his chapped lips. "Very nice. You see? Isn't it easy to be nice?" His eyes are glued to your chest. "Now make me a sandwich, girl. Roast beef on white, extra horseradish."

In a daze, you follow his orders. Making sandwiches is automatic for you, giving you plenty of time to wallow in the churning feelings inside, the shame and confusion and that pleasant, sparkling warmth that promises to banish those bad feelings forever. But do you want to, if this is what it takes?

You blink down at the sandwich as you reach the end of the counter near the register. Without a thought, and without looking up, you spill out the words. "Any other condiments, sir?"

His voice comes breathy and far too close. "Are your panties wet, girl?"

That warmth inside stops you from reflexively flinching away, and you look up to see Don leaning over the sneezeguard, his face so close to yours. Are my panties wet? You already know the answer, and your voice is weak but clear. "Y-yes, sir."

Don licks his lips. "Gimme a little of that pretty girl juice, then."

Just as your hands had moved on their own to make the sandwich, you feel them move to your crotch, one of them slipping inside your pants, into your drenched panties, feeling your absurdly juicy pussy. There's no wondering why or how you got this turned on. You know it's because of the way all the men today have been treating you, what Jeremy did to you in his office, even Don's insults just now. It doesn't make sense, but it doesn't have to. Pulling your hand from your crotch, you shake off a few drops of your juices onto the sandwich, and the warmth inside blooms as Don nods approvingly.

Still moving on autopilot, you wrap Don's roast beef sandwich and ring him up at the register. He carefully counts out the amount from a pile of crumpled bills and filthy coins pulled out of his pocket. When he finds himself a few cents short, he doesn't hesitate to reach right into your tip jar and pull out what he needs. You do nothing to stop him.

"Now," says Don as he chuckles and takes his food. "How about some table service?"

You furrow your brows. The warmth inside is pushing you to agree to whatever Don says, but it's also dulling your thoughts. "Table service?"

"Yeah." Don almost growls out the word, and you feel yourself shrink, **** to appease him. "You've been an awful bitch to me today, and so now I'm stressed on top of being hungry. If you're really so sorry, you can come over to my table and serve me my food."

You're not sure exactly what he means, but there's nothing left inside to argue with him. You're still feeling bad about making him unhappy, and the warmth wants to make him feel better. Tits out, you walk around the counter and over to the table where he's sat down, and stand by him, unsure of what to do next. He picked one of the few tables with only one seat. "H-how can I help you, sir?"

He frowns at you, clearly annoyed by the question. "Well, you can start by taking a seat, you dumb bitch."

He motions to his lap, and you gingerly sit on his stained jeans.

"Now pick up my food and unwrap it."

You obediently lift the sandwich from the table and unwrap one end.

He gives you an exasperated sigh that makes your pussy throb with need. "Now feed it to me, you stupid slut!"

Unable to do anything else, you hold the sandwich to his mouth so he can take a bite. He chews loudly, using his free hands to grope at you. Squeezing your thighs, pressing against your crotch, rubbing over your belly and fondling your young breasts. The feeling of his rough hands against your soft skin drives you wild, and you begin to writhe and squirm in his lap. When he pinches and pulls at your stiff nipples you can't help but let out a squealing moan. Don's only response is to chuckle at you, bits of roast beef and chewed bread falling from his mouth onto his shirt.

"I'm thirsty, bitch. That was too much horseradish. Go get me a Coke, and it better be on the house!" He abruptly pushes you off his lap, and you scurry over to the soda fountain, **** to be close to him again. In the moments it takes to fill his cup, you manage to ask yourself why. Because I need to make it up to him. I need to apologize for being such a dumb slutty bitch.

Those thoughts feel alien at first, but as you turn away from the soda fountain to walk back to Don, you see him smirking at you, rubbing at his crotch and licking his lips, and suddenly the thoughts feel true. Feel right. You find yourself feeling satisfied that you're able to serve him, please him, turn him on. After all, what else are you good for?

Returning to your seat in Don's lap, you feel a small sense of relief, like you'd been anxious to be away from him. Eager to satisfy his needs, you hold out the cup of Coke, angling the straw towards his mouth. A pit forms in your stomach when you see him curl up his lip in contempt.

"I'm not touching that straw, not after I've seen what passes for hygiene here." His eyes crawl over you. "Give me the drink yourself."

Sitting in his lap, you're looking down at his face, and he opens his mouth like a baby bird. Your mind slowly processes what exactly he's asking you to do, and two things happen at once. A **** wave of revulsion passes through you, one last frantic effort of your old self to push you out of this humiliating situation. But that wave is completely subsumed by the blossoming warmth that fills your body as you slowly take a long sip from the straw, allowing the sickly sweet effervescent liquid to fill your mouth.

You lean over him, bringing your mouth to his, and his parted lips curve into a smile. "Don't spill any, now." His condescending voice is like honey in your ears, filling you with the welcome feeling of being less than him, grateful for the chance to serve him in this most intimate of ways. You press your soft lips to his chapped ones, his bushy mustache abrasive against your skin, his hands digging painfully into your bare hips, and you push the drink from your mouth to his.

Pulling away once you've done what he asked, you feel your heart racing, breaths short and shallow, the tingle of the carbonation in your mouth matching the tingle his mustache left on your skin. Don chuckles at you, pinching your nipple for good measure. "I knew you were just a dumb bitch as soon as I saw you. I'm just glad I had the chance to prove it. Now give me another bite of that sandwich."

You don't know exactly how long you spend in Don's lap, feeding him his meal as he abuses your helpless body. Every bite of sandwich, he seems to take greater pleasure in being as loud and sloppy as possible, even spilling bits of food onto your bare skin. Each time he demands another drink of Coke, your delivering kiss gets a little deeper and longer, until your tongue is dancing with his, tasting the old nicotine and greasy gas station food he no doubt lives on. The entire time, his hands grow bolder, crueler, making you feel exactly what your place is, making you feel discomfort and pain, making you crave it.

By the time his sandwich is gone, you're moaning and writhing in his lap, the warmth inside transformed into an unbearable heat that throbs outward from your pussy. Don unceremoniously shoves his hand against your crotch, making you groan with need and bringing a familiar chuckle out of him. "Seems like you got a little hot and bothered serving an old guy like me. You wanna get off, bitch?"

His question sends a thrill shivering through your body. All you can do is nod.

"Ask me real, real nice, and maybe I'll let you grind one out on my knee. How about it?" His small eyes twinkle at you, drinking in the sight of your flushed, panting face.

You can't help it. You need this. Not just the orgasm; you need to beg. "Please." You take a few gasping breaths. "Please let me grind on your knee, sir. Please let me come on you. Please. Please. Please!"

He laughs, a sharp, cruel sound that pierces the heat within you and shoots straight to your throbbing pussy. His hands grab your hips and roughly shift you so you're straddling his leg. "Well, bitch, if you're that ****, I'd better let you get to work."

You don't waste any time. Bracing your hands against his shoulders and your feet on the floor, you press your crotch against his knee and move. You grind against him, **** for the orgasm you can feel building inside. Your eyes are squeezed shut, and you slowly realize your mouth is moving, letting out a breathy whisper "thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou"

His hands move from your hips to grab painfully at your breasts, and give both your nipples a fierce squeeze, forcing your eyes to shoot open as a cry of delicious pain flies from your lips. "You're just a pathetic little slut, aren't you?"

You grind harder, faster. "Y-y-yes, sir. I'm a pathetic-ah! I'm a pathetic little slut."

His fingers twist your swollen buds. "You like being a put in your place by a good ol' boy, dontcha?"

Oh fuck oh god it's coming it's coming so hard. "Yes sirrrrrrraaaaahhhhhh I love it I love being put in my place oh FUCK!"

His hands suddenly release your nipples and squeeze the sides of your face, pulling it close to his. "You're gonna be a good little bitch from now on." It isn't a question.

Your mouth is **** into a deformed O by his squeezing hands, and your voice spills out of it. "Yesshhh yesh I'm a ghood liddle bich I'm your bich fffffuuuuuu—"

He spits in your open mouth, and you **** on your ecstatic cry. The orgasm you've been desperately chasing hits you like a semi truck, your body shuddering and convulsing as pathetic noises tumble from your drooling mouth. Don just laughs at you, using his hands on your face to push you off his lap. You land in a heap, hands pressed to the floor between your knees as you gasp and heave for breath.

"Not a bad start, bitch. I'll consider that a down payment on your apology. For now..." you hear him pop the lid off the drink, and suddenly your head is doused with the remains of his Coke as he places the overturned cup on your head like a dunce cap. "...thanks for the sandwich. Bitch." He walks away without even giving you the satisfaction of spitting on you.

You hear the sound of him leaving through the front door like it's coming from far away. All you can hear is your own breathing, your own heartbeat, the steady drip-drip-drip of the soda from the tips of your hair onto the floor. You can only imagine what you look like, hunched over on the floor, the crotch of your pants soaked through with your girlcum.

"Hey, dummy, you gonna clean that up or what?"