Spilt Milk

by Sarah Steel

  Her fingers appeared at her buttocks, taloning the soft peaches and spreading them apart. Deep in the cleft, her tiny pink anus glistened.

  'Better make it three o'clock.'

  'Thank you Mr Andrews,' she whispered, choking down her tears.

  The great thing about Brighton was that he could just shuffle everything over to other branches, and head office never twigged. All queries were sent straight across to Basingstoke and new claims were stamped 'insufficient data' and palmed off on Croydon. This left him all the time he needed to enjoy his 'girls' and his computer. He could empty his in-tray by ten every morning, then settle down for a couple of hours downloading porn from East European web sites.

  Mary, his office manageress, did everything. Thirty-two, heavily breasted and superbly buttocked, she was now the breadwinner, since her husband had been made redundant. The mortgage was heavy and his severance money light. Every penny counted - and Mary had to ask for a sub before her salary every month.

  'Take sixty out of the petty cash,' he would instruct her.

  'Thank you, Mr Andrews,' she would reply, undoing a second - then a third - blouse button, offering his greedy eyes her cleavage. The underwired cups, deliberately selected for the push-up effect, held her bulging breasts in submissive bondage - just like her cash shortage kept her under his firm control.

  The soft curves of her bosom would collide and shudder as she deliberately bent down across his desk towards him, slowly tidying away his paperwork. When he carelessly dropped paperclips on the floor, she knelt down on all fours to gather them up, surrendering her tightly skirted bottom up to his gaze.

  'Did I say sixty?' She flinched as his hand stroked her left buttock, staying at her ripe flesh to cup and squeeze.

  'Better make it a round hundred, Mary.'

  'Just as you like, Mr Andrews.'

  When he returned from his two hour pub lunch - ice-cold Guinness, sausages and a stripper with baby-oiled breasts - his e-mail advised him that the Canadians were sending down one of their consultants to evaluate the Brighton branch. Management mentorship, as the jargon put it. Mr Andrews summoned Mary into his office.

  'We're getting a visit tomorrow. Some snooper coming down from head office to assess our operation here. Jobs-on-the-line time, Mary. We'd better look busy. See to it.'

  'Are they looking for a redundancy?' she murmured, paling.

  'Downsizing is the name of the game.'

  She stood behind him, placing her slender hands down upon his shoulders. 'I serve you well, Mr Andrews,' she whispered, massaging away the tension of his stress brought on by the e-mail.

  'Nobody's indispensable. Look what happened to your bloke.'

  'I'll fill up all the in-trays with outstanding claims.'

  'See to it that the "girls" are hard at it.'

  'Relax,' she said softly, lowering her bosom down to pillow his head. 'You mustn't get stressed, Mr Andrews. It's bad for you to get upset.'

  Kneeling, she slipped her hand inside his shirt, fingernailing his nipple. He grunted, his trousers bulging in response.

  'We don't want any changes here, do we?' he reasoned, spreading his hands out expansively. 'Everything's just fine as it is.'

  'Just as you want it, Mr Andrews,' her moistened lips whispered as she unzipped him. She closed her eyes and saw the unpaid bills stacking up behind the toaster in the kitchen. Opening her eyes, she managed a forced smile as she dragged out his erection, enclosing the hot length in a fist of fingers, and started to pump rhythmically.

  'Get us two coffees,' Mr Andrews barked out to Susie as he ushered the head office consultant into his office. 'Take a seat.'

  She took one - his. He scowled and pulled up a chair alongside his desk, barely able to conceal his resentment at the cool young blonde who oozed efficiency, self-possession and an assurance that he found maddening. From her razor-cut blonde fringe to her black, kitten-heeled court shoes, the consultant projected executive success. The suit, a Louis Feraud, was severely chic and expensive. Her metal briefcase matched her silver nail varnish. The mobile phone was fashioned into an ivory dildo. Impudently ironic. He blushed as she absently fingered it candidly.

  There were no polite preliminaries. No how-was-your-journey-down. She got stuck into him straight away.

  'I've been running audits on you over the past few weeks. And—'

  'Audits?' he echoed. 'But—'

  'I can scan you from HQ and track everything that goes on here through your computer.'

  'I had no idea.' He looked at her closely, as if troubled by an elusive thought.

  'Yep,' she nodded. 'Our software can trace every transaction.' Her voice was crisp and assured, but he seemed to be recollecting memory from the past.

  'So you've been watching me—'

  'Every move you make.'

  He stared at her, a flash of recognition in his widening eyes. Surely not. No. It couldn't be. He shook his head, convinced he was mistaken.

  'For instance,' she continued, 'I would like to hear your reasons for the petty cash account being—' she consulted a print-out, 'over two hundred pounds short this month. Why is that, Mr Andrews?'

  Advances to Mary, rent arrears for Susie, lingerie for Annie and a couple of crisp fivers down that stripper's cleavage yesterday lunchtime. But Mr Andrews had better answers prepared for the question.

  'Donations to local charities. Essential PR. Generates goodwill and business. I have the receipts here somewhere,' he countered smoothly, opening his top drawer and producing the bogus paperwork.

  She had to swing her legs away to let him get access to his desk. His knuckles grazed her glossily stockinged knees.

  Her hand brushed his away sharply. 'Keep anything else in your top drawer these days, Andrews?' she snapped.

  He froze, alert to her authority. No 'Mr': just 'Andrews'. Only somebody well in with senior management would express themselves so dominantly.

  'Any Xeroxed bottoms, perhaps?' she asked, her tone as hard as cold steel.

  Swallowing noisily, he slumped back down in his chair. Memories of Leadenhall Street flooded his swirling brains. Samantha. The sharply spoken, severely attired blonde sitting across the desk - in his chair - was Samantha.

  Her voice broke into his confusion. 'As I suspected, these figures do not tally with the figures downloaded from your computer to mine. Substantial amounts, Andrews,' she murmured. 'I've been monitoring you very closely. Watching you milk the company on a pretty but regular basis. It soon mounts up. And I also know you've been accessing porn.' Her silver fingernail tapped a blue floppy disc. 'State-of-the-art memory search facility. I've got all your web sites visited. Dates and times.'

  Mary tapped politely on the door and entered, bringing the coffees in. Samantha noted the unbuttoned cleavage and the anxious eyes.

  'Thanks for coming in a little earlier. I needed to see you before Andrews comes.' Samantha invited the three 'girls' to sit.

  'Is it bad news?' Susie asked.

  'Our jobs?' Mary echoed.

  'You can all be assured that your jobs are secure,' she replied, smiling. 'No, it's nothing like that. I'm down here to fine-tune things here at Brighton. Andrews needs a little tweaking. I know him of old. Nasty piece of work. It's time he was taught a lesson. Susie.'

  The young art student looked up quickly.

  'I'll get our legal department onto your lease. As a valuable employee, we will take care of that. Annie,' she continued briskly, 'I know you need to go early at short notice. From now on, consider yourself on flexi-time. Work your hours to your own schedule, as long as they match the contract, OK?'

  Annie beamed.

  'As for you, Mary, I will set up an interest-free loan, with a repayment spread you'll hardly notice. The company can afford it. It can't afford to lose you.'

  The three employees chorused their thanks.

  'Now you can all do something for me. Andrews. I don't know what you've had to endure, but I can guess. I'll need your help sorting him out.'


  'You've got it.' The three women spoke with one voice.

  'Half an hour late, Andrews. A regular bad habit?'

  He flushed and muttered something about parking problems as he swept past Samantha into his office.

  'Get back out here at once,' she barked. He came out of his office, open-mouthed. 'Over by the photocopier, please.'

  He strode across to the copier and, lifting the rubber cover, leered down into the dark glass plate. Shrugging, he turned to her.

  'Seems all right. What's the problem? Paper jam? No need to get into a state about it—'

  'Shut up,' Samantha thundered. 'Unzip. Unzip and get it on the glass.'

  The three 'girls' stopped working and giggled as they enjoyed his outrage. Crimsoning, he spluttered angrily.

  'At once, Andrews. Unless,' Samantha continued distinctly, 'you want me to suspend you immediately - and prosecute you subsequently for fraud and embezzlement?'

  Andrews paled.

  'I'm waiting. Waiting for you to unzip and slap it on the glass.'

  He obeyed, his trembling fingers struggling with his zip. Up on tiptoe, he eased his flaccid penis onto the copier and closed the lid on it gingerly.

  Samantha strode across to the machine. Stabbing the buttons with her silvernailed fingertip, she produced a hugely magnified image on A3 paper. Extracting it, she flourished it aloft.

  'This is what Andrews thinks he's like. Potent. A masculine menace. A well-hung wolf.'

  Jabbing the buttons once more, she produced a diminutive image on a small A5 sheet, the penis diminished by 200 per cent. She made six more copies. He squirmed as she pinned the cover down firmly, his naked thighs glowing eerily each time the green light flashed.

  Abstracting the derisory images from the tray, she handed one to each of the three laughing women. 'This is what Andrews really is,' she snarled, blue-tacking the other images up on the walls around the office. 'In case you ever forget, just look up and remember that he is, after all, only a little prick.'

  Ribald and scornful laughter drowned out his angry protest.

  'You can't—' he exploded, stumbling in his loose trousers as he lurched to snatch down the taunting pictures of his unmanhood.

  'Leave those alone,' Samantha warned him, her tone one of icy contempt. In a brighter voice, she asked the three women if they were ready for coffee.

  'Yes, please,' they replied, just about able to manage the words through their giggling.

  'That'll be just the four coffees, then, Andrews. You've forfeited yours by arriving late. Be a good little boy, won't you, and when you've put the kettle on and washed the cups from yesterday, slip out for some cakes. I rather fancy a Bakewell. They can have what they want. They'll give you their orders.'

  Finally managing to master his zip, Andrews stumbled out of the office, his face a blaze of anger and shame.

  'That certainly taught him,' Annie remarked.

  Susie and Mary grinned.

  'Andrews has a lot to learn,' Samantha murmured. 'That was merely lesson one.'

  When he had returned and served them coffee in his own office, Samantha ordered him to bend across his desk. Protesting at first, he quickly obeyed when she picked up her silver mobile - fingering the smooth phallic shape slowly - and started to press the number for head office.

  She invited the three watching women to gather around the desk as she yanked down his trousers and shorts and spanked his bare buttocks with a long, plastic ruler. He yelped as his buttocks reddened under her savage chastisement. After a blistering twenty-six strokes, she placed the ruler down on the desk and taloned his hot cheeks, digging her silver nails into his crimson flesh.

  'Kneel,' she ordered. 'No: keep your trousers down and your red bottom where we can all see it.'

  They resumed their seats and their coffee as he remained on all fours, the plate of cakes perched on his hot bottom. As they sipped their coffee and chatted, he shuffled between their chairs, offering them cakes from the plate balanced on his buttocks. Mary selected a chocolate eclair and was just about to bite into it when, with an impish grin, she jammed it between his cheeks. They collapsed in raucous laughter as he shuffled around in a circle.

  Annie kicked off her sandal and guided her stockinged toes up to torment his sac, scrunching his balls savagely.

  Samantha shook her head. 'Patience, Annie. You'll each get your turn with him over the next few days. I promise. I have a working brief to be his mentor. He's long overdue for a spot of training. You can each help me correct his faults and reconstruct his management style.

  At two o'clock they amicably tossed a coin in front of him to see which of them would enjoy having Andrews at their mercy first. Susie, the art student, won. She led him into his office by his tie, inviting her two colleagues and Samantha in to witness his humiliation.

  Kneeling down before her, Andrews begged: but she merely gagged him with her panties before baring his groin. After binding his hands tightly behind his back with one of Susie's seamed stockings - making sure the shining nylon burnt at his wrists - she produced a can of pink paint and a stiffly bristled twenty-centimetre brush. His eyes widened in mute appeal above the gag as she snapped on a pair of yellow rubber gloves.

  'Heard of Jackson Pollock? Well, now you're going to see an original Jackson Bollock.' She dipped the bristles into the gleaming pink paint and wiped them against the lip of the can. 'He always wants to know what I get up to every weekend. I'm a painter. I paint.' She dabbed the brush at his balls, deliberately guiding the cruel bristles home harshly. His squeal was audible despite the panties binding his mouth. 'God, they'll have a laugh when they clean him up in casualty tonight.' She drew the dripping brush along the length of his shaft. Jabbing at his balls, she produced an erection - more 'canvas', she joked, for her to work on. 'It'll sting like hell.'

  Mary frowned, despite her grin. 'Sting?'

  'Oil-based. They'll have to use turps and an astringent.'

  Andrews wriggled to evade the deft brush-strokes but Susie was resolutely firm, covering every tiny inch of his buttocks, balls and extended, nodding cock with the glutinous pink paint.

  He did not show up for work the next day.

  'He'll be in,' Samantha reassured them. 'He's got no choice.'

  As she predicted, Andrews slunk into the office the next day.

  He blustered, his violent indignation soon collapsing into a whimpering appeal for mercy. Samantha silenced him abruptly, then handed him over to Annie, the single parent.

  'Sorry, girls.' She shrugged, pushing him into his own office, 'I want to do this alone.'

  'We promise not to listen or peep,' they lied.

  'Strip,' she commanded, closing then locking the office door.

  'Now look here, Annie, I'm ordering you—'

  'Get undressed, you obnoxious little toad. I'm going to teach you a lesson. A lesson you'll never forget. Now strip.'

  He struggled out of his clothes and threw them down onto the floor. Moments later, he cowered before her, shivering in his vest, pants and dark socks.

  'Pick up your clothes and fold them neatly,' she instructed in a tone normally reserved for naughty boys.

  Flushing, he obeyed, bending down and scrabbling to retrieve his clothing. She dragged his underpants down over his buttocks and spanked him harshly, twice.

  'I want you naked,' she ordered. 'Vest and pants off for your punishment.'

  As he struggled out of his underwear Annie pulled her cashmere jumper up over her head. Her naked breasts were round, ripe and heavily swollen. They wobbled as she tossed the cashmere jumper aside and, taking a seat, ordered him to sit on her lap.

  Cradling him like a baby, she cupped her left breast and forced it into his mouth. Andrews withdrew his lips from her erect nipple but quickly returned his mouth as she dropped her hands down and squeezed his balls.

  'Suck.'

  Closing his eyes, he mouthed her slavishly. She breast-fed him dominantly, smothering him until he spluttered and
gasped for air. Her tweaking fingertips at his naked balls ensured that she made him suffer to her complete and utter satisfaction. Annie grew wet, so exciting was her absolute revenge. She ordered him to stretch out, belly down, across her lap.

  Spanking him was delicious. He squealed as she hammered her hot left palm, savagely cracking it across his seething cheeks. All the weeks - months - of pent-up anger and humiliation poured out in the vengeful spate of furious punishment. He howled, but the heavily breasted young woman merely renewed her vicious onslaught. Spilling him down onto the carpet, she knelt over his reddened buttocks, straddling him between her thighs.

  'You've made me all wet and sticky,' she murmured, dragging her skirt up and her panties down. 'I'd better dry myself.'

  He moaned as she raked her wet plum down over his hot cheeks repeatedly, buckling face down into the carpet as he suffered this gross humiliation. Annie rode him until she came, squealing her joy as she climaxed contemptuously against his spanked bottom.

  Breathless, she remained astride him, then slowly rose - to tread on his red buttocks, dominantly pinning him down.

  'You told me that I didn't need a bra, didn't you?' she demanded.

  He remained silent as she trod him ruthlessly into the carpet.

  'Didn't you?'

  'Yes, no, I'm sorry—' he spluttered.

  'You were wrong,' she whispered, flourishing a white cotton sports bra. 'I do need a bra. To whip you with.'

  Whipping it down a dozen times, she lashed his bare cheeks mercilessly, striping his helpless buttocks with cruel crimson weals.

  The following day, Mary held the entire office in suspense until late in the afternoon. Andrews was kept busy dealing with the backlog of neglected claims - a task broken only to attend to his colleagues with cups of tea, coffee and total obedience. Samantha timed his twenty-minute ham sandwich lunch at his desk and hounded him tirelessly, checking his output and berating him for his slowness.