If Those New Lips Of Yours Are Making It Hard To Get Your Message Across, Maybe Try Putting It Somewhere

Really love your writing! Office, vocabulary, reputation.

[Three-Prompts which bear the poster’s name and are challenging get quicker attention.]

I still work for Golden Goblin Press.  The entire company used to be mine.  Now I’m just the “gofer girl” – it says so on my nametag, for God’s sake!

The changes in terminology are also very grating: every woman who still has a job, however menial, is called a “girl”: “keypunch girl”, “filing girl,” “cleaning girl” … .

But the truth?  The honest truth?  What I hate more than my boring work or the ridiculous new vocabulary or losing my lovely apartment and car or having to wear this stupid miniskirt (with a garter belt!)….  What I hate more than any of these things is that the company I built from the ground up is now being run into the ground.  The idiots who are running it thought “the bitch” was keeping them down, but they are proving every day that they have no idea how to run a publishing company: they’re breaking promises to authors, letting reliable sellers go out of print, publishing pornographic crap because “it’s what sells”, only it’s not selling.

It will be at least something of a relief when Golden Goblin Press finally goes under, even though it means I’ll be out of a job and my next one will probably pay more poorly and feature even more sexual harassment.

Everyone who reblogs this will get a personalized hypnotic erotic GIF based on what I see on your profile.

I will create the animation, post it on my blog and tag you. Feel free to put any kinks you want to share or any suggestions you need re-enforced in the tags or as a reblog text.

Love this entirely!

The Other Assumption Game

Since “The Assumption Game” has been popular recently, here’s the mind control/bimbo version.  

Post this to your blog if you want messages with assumptions about you that are either true or false.  

You will respond to each of these messages that the assumption made about you is true.  And for exactly one hour after your response, that assumption will become true for you, and you will act accordingly.  

The micro tartan skirt. An absolute essential to any girl's wardrobe.

She was (once) an executive damnit, not some beach whore, how exactly was she supposed to get any work done dressed like this (she isn’t she’s the office joke) and how the hell did they expect her to get to work on time dressed like this? (They didn’t, her being consistently late was something to punish her over) They’d taken away her car and moved her into an apartment 6 blocks from the office (long enough so she’d get stares, wolf whistles and proposition’s, but short enough so taking the bus was pointless), she was constantly misstepping in her sky high heels with her boobs constantly threatening to spill out of her top.

And why the fuck did they make her take a Breathalyzer test every single morning and reprimand her (in a formal meeting) for not being drunk enough. (they wanted her work bad, and her ability to make good decisions reduced).

She thought about quiting, she really did. The problem was she owed a mountain of debt to the company that was increasing far quicker than she could even make the interest payments.

Amongst the things they were charging her for was:

- the down payment on the apartment

- the mortgage

-rent (though she was technically the landlord they’d forced her to sublet the apartment to herself meaning the $1200 a month she charged for the place was constantly going in and out of her bank account making it impossible for her to touch it)

- landlord services (they maintained the property and preformed room checks to ensure the tenant was keeping the property in good condition, failing in the check would result in a fine)

- A Cable package that only gave her access to fashion, shopping, gossip and porn channels (anything that might give her information on the wider world was banned, no news for her)

- the plastic surgery they’d recomended she get

- Theft prevention package (Security cameras in every room live streaming to the office but also running a program that recorded a highlight reel of all of her sexual exploits)

- Life insurance (The recipient not her family but the holder of the debt her company)

They gave several company credit cards, all with exorbitant interest rates (36% to 48%) for her to make all of her purchases on (only at company approved stores) which charged her an insane amount of money for the most basic of things ($12 for a a half Gallon of milk).

Worse still whilst the debt she owed on the credit cards had to be paid in US Dollars the credit cards automatically converted into Company scrip, vouchers only valid at the approved stores, if she went to anywhere not on the list her cards would always be declined.

The result being she was forced to eat, drink, read, watch and wear what they wanted, they had complete control over her money and she was never going to pay them back.

She was effectively an Indentured servant for the company with no hope of escape.

#Exec2Sec  #Social Demotion  #Submission  #Humiliation  #Stacking the Deck

A new desktop background for those girls who need it. It is a little tame, however. Would love to know if anyone has something better for the bimbos in their life.

Brilliant! And no, if I was trying to stump you I would say something like: pigtails, plastic, dumber.

Every time Barbara ties her pigtails with those plastic clips I gave her, she absorbs another dose of the drug that is making her dumber.

No, that’s much too easy.  I can do better than that.

Barbara didn’t actually mind putting her hair in pigtails.  Back when she was a market analyst, she had to wear the corporate uniform, including a high-maintenance ‘do.  She envied the technicians in the back rooms, who could dress as they please.

She was still forced to abide by a dress code, but it was actually less of a hassle, since it was basically the same outfit every time: sort of a Swiss dairy maid, hair in pigtails, smile and makeup mandatory.

She didn’t mind showing off her legs, or her cleavage.  “Eh, you deal with it,” she often said.  What did bother her were the platform heels of transparent plastic.  How the fuck did Mr. Bickford think they went with a minidirndl?  She never questioned it, she just wore them.

When she got to her desk, she found a package on her desk.  It proved to be a bizarre assortment of Japanese products, plus a “Golden Brown” membership card at The Sun Spot tanning salon, and a note stuck on the cover of a glossy pamphlet.  The note said Mr. Bickford wanted her to start wearing Ganguro makeup.

It was just about the only thing that could possibly have made her look dumber.