Epilogue

It's been a long seven years.

You've lost track of the number of sexual and intimate humiliations you've had to suffer at the hands of the endlessly horny and endlessly creative Mr. Samuel Cambridge, partner at law.

You remember all those times you stood next to him, taking notes, as he sat back with a hand underneath your skirt, groping your bottom. Or worse, his hand actually resting inside your panties, his knobby fingers lodged between your cheeks, wriggling into your back door.

And how embarrassing to realize how horny and excited it made you. And then how you had to admit it, out loud, to your boss.

And sometimes in front of the other law partners as well.

And that TikTok account that he made you create, which he insisted you fill with videos of you dressed in hot, barely-legal office outfits gushing with endlessly effusive praise for your "superior" and "manly" boss, with his "inexhaustible stamina" and "handsome feature that any girl would swoon over." You were required to post every day! And then when your handle (hot4myboss) was mentioned by Joe Rogan and went viral, you still you had to post every day, with hot vids to your 1.2m followers of you saying things like "Boss f**d me twice today. Made me peak 4x. STUD. #officehookupsarethebest".

My mom will see this, you thought to yourself at the time, blushing down to your roots. Of course your conservative family have all disowned you as a queer freak by now, but you also know they're all subscribed to your feed, mostly so they can make mean comments on your posts.

Speaking of being fucked by your boss (which you are, frequently), he quickly bought you all sorts of surgery. First facial feminization and vocal. Your voice is now nice and light and high and your face is definitely cute-feminine. Then bottom surgery. And gross lip injections at least once every three months, to make sure you have those big bimbo pillows on your face. Oh, and liposuction so you have a nice trim waist now.

But you think it's the mental humiliations which are the worst. How you have to tell everyone, "Oh, I'm just a dumb PA. Everyone tells me what to do. But that's how I like it." And how everyone really *does* tell you what to do. All of the partners have gotten used to ordering you around like you were a dog, and, also like a dog, you have to be happy and eager and grateful all the time, to everyone, no matter what the task.

And how people get pissed when something takes even 30 seconds too long for whatever reason which is completely out of your control, and sometimes because other assholes in the office purposely delay you knowing that you'll get into trouble, and when this happens you have to say your sorry, no matter how unfair it is, and then give them the option to punish you with a spanking (!!!) which many of them actual do (!!!).

And speaking of being ordered to do things, how you have to clean Mr. Cambridge's penthouse apartment every week so he can save on maid service, which means cleaning all of his disgusting, soiled underwear and dressing in a ridiculous slutty French maid's outfit so he can watch you on his supposedly 'hidden' cameras from the office, and how you have to make kisses to all of the photos he has of himself around his home whenever you pass them.

And the clothing! Mr. Cambridge gave you a clothing allowance, which, at the time, you were ridiculously grateful for (because cash is always tight), until you realized that he demands to approve every piece of clothing, including every piece of underwear. And how you would have to stand in his office and pull up your skirt or take down your blouse while he carefully inspected and stroked every inch of the fabric while it was still on your body, before announcing if it was small or tight or slutty enough.

And so your closet in your apartment which you have to share with a snotty female roommate who thinks she's above you because she's an 'original, Grade-A woman' (bitch), is stuffed to overflowing with all sorts of tacky, inappropriate tight sweaters, short mini-skirts, see-through blouses (so that your bra's clearly visible), crop-tops, way too small T-shirts, thongs and stockings and panties and heels (endless heels!) and his weird fetish for long-line bras and pantyhose.

And all of those business trips you take together, and of course he always has a single room 'to save cost', and of course he takes those opportunities to fuck you in every way possible, multiple times a day, even between meetings, so that you spend almost as much time in the shower as you do in the bed.

And that time he pimped you out to that Japanese business man. You knew something was wrong because your boss disappeared while you were in the bathroom, leaving you a note telling you to see that the guest was 'exceptionally well cared for' and you spent the night with the business man sucking his (surprisingly fat) cock and then letting him shoot in your face and then film it to show to his colleagues back in Tokyo.

And after all that, they lost the contract anyway!

So yes. It has been a very long, seven years.

And today is the last day!

"Hey Jenny," says the receptionist, (everyone calls you Jenny, when they're not calling you slut bunny), "you received a package."

"Thanks, Janet."

You drop the package off on your desk before you trot into Mr. Cambridge's office to prepare. You pour his Starbucks triple latte into a mug and unwrap his bagel (toasted, with salmon cream cheese) onto a plate before stripping off your dress so that now you're dressed in heels, stockings, panties a bra and a cream-colored slip. You quickly put some lube on your dilators (both front and back) and make sure both holes are well lubricated for him.

Damn it! He's low on legal pads!

Racing as fast as you can, you put your dress back on, then run to the supply closet, teetering on your heels, and fetch a pack of new pads before running back. You are just able to get the pads out of the package and pull off your dress when Mr. Cambridge enters.

"Mr. Cambridge!" you squeal with girlish delight, as you trot over to him, giving him a *huge* hug and a kiss on the lips. "I am SO glad to see you! I SO, SO missed you last night. I am SO lonely when we're not together!!"

"I missed you too, Jenny," he says, with a throaty chuckle. You squeal and wriggle as gropes your tits and your bottom while giving you a deep French kiss.

Soon, you're pushed over the table and he's plugging away into your pussy from behind while reading his schedule.

"So, it's been seven years today," he asks, giving you an especially deep plunge, which makes you moan.

"Yes, sir," you say.

"And have you enjoyed yourself?"

"Oh, yes sir!" You say, with as much enthusiasm as you can muster. "Every day has been a horny dream cum true!"

He laughs at your pun. He loves those sex puns the best, you've learned.

"I knew you would," he says, thrusting harder and faster. "Because what are you?"

"I'm... uh... a horny... uh... office slut fuck bunny who needs her boss's cock to be happy!!" you squeal as he unloads into your cunt, which he always does when you debase yourself for him.

"Excellent," he says, pulling out, his splooge pouring out of your slit and onto the hardwood floors. "There's an extension to your employment agreement on your desk. I look forward to seeing your signature on it."

Wait, you think, as you're busy, lovingly licking his wilting cock clean, does he really think I like this??

Apparently he does, because back at your desk there's the extension, with a hand-written note from your boss saying "looking forward to another seven years of mutual pleasure!"

Another SEVEN YEARS? you think to yourself, aghast. You look at the form with the little sticky note helpfully showing you where to sign.

You honestly don't know what to think. You read through the extension. Another seven years of being the butt of all of the office jokes. Another seven years of humiliating yourself. Another seven years of servicing that cock in every possible way.

You look down at your low-cut peasant dress, stocking and high heels.

Another seven years of dressing like a slut, you think.

But if not this, then what? Who else would take you? You reputation is, quite literally, in the toilet (after the escapade in the men's bathroom at that legal training conference). What skills do you have at this point other than keeping this one horny asshole happy and sexually satisfied?

You reach for the package and unwrap it. At this point, you know what he wants. You know what it takes. You've become numb to all of the comments, the jibes, the groping hands in the elevator, the men trapping you in the corners so they can look down your blouse or put a hand up your dress.

You slip the paper of the package and open the box.

And out tumbles a pink, diamond pendant.