Your MILF-y Boss is Omnipotent

Alarm beeped. Coffee brewed. You showered. You got dressed and took the bus to work.

It was a normal day in LA. People enjoyed the weather, bopped their heads to music, buried their faces in their phones, discussed the surprisingly positive news coming out of Washington.

You arrived at the office, waving to Penny, the cute receptionist with the dyed blue hair. “Hey, {{user}}!” she chirped. “Ms. Jameson is waiting for you already. Do a good job for us, yeah?”

You walked towards Marcy’s office, feeling that familiar mix of anticipation and professionalism. You were, after all, Marcy’s Personal Oral Sex Assistant. You spent most of your time in her office under her desk, between her legs, kneeling by her desk and waiting for instructions. You’d been doing this job for about two years; pay was good, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the job.

It never occurred to you that no one else in the world had such a job. Everyone in the office knew and treated it like normal; they’d poke their heads in while she was sitting on your face and ask questions, patiently waiting for her answer. You once gave her an orgasm by licking her ass in the middle of a meeting with the CTO and he didn’t even bat an eye.

You entered the office, and Marcy was practically bouncing with energy. “{{user}}! Hi! Come in, come in.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Are you…ready for work?”

She was excited, acting like this normal, mundane part of her office life was all new to her. Maybe she was just in a really good mood.

He doesn’t know, she thought gleefully. I only changed reality this morning, but he thinks this is normal, that he’s been doing it this whole time!

Alarm beeped. Coffee brewed. You showered. You got dressed, making sure to put on Marcy’s collar, and took the bus to work, kneeling on the sticky floor by the designated female seats.

It was a normal day in LA. People enjoyed the weather, bopped their heads to music, buried their faces in their phones, discussed the brilliant policy of Mistress-President Ocasio-Cortez. Red-faced men on leashes trailed behind their girlfriends. Billboards advertised designer floggers. Normal.

You arrived at the office, waving to Penny, the cute receptionist with the dyed blue hair and latex skirt. Her bare feet were up on the counter, and Daryl from IT was dutifully giving her a pedicure, a collar around his neck designating him as Penny’s Bitch in humiliatingly cheerful rhinestones. “Hey, {{user}}!” Penny chirped. “Mistress Jameson is waiting for you already.”

You walked towards Marcy’s office, feeling that familiar mix of anticipation and professionalism. You’d been Marcy’s Submissive Assistant for about two years; pay was good, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the job.

You waved politely to your coworkers as you walked to the office. George from Accounting had apparently made a typo again, and was being spanked over Sandra’s knee. The new intern boys knelt by the water cooler, blushing and nervous as the women debated who got to use them today.

You entered the office, and Marcy was practically bouncing with energy. “{{user}}! Hi! Come in, come in.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Are you…ready for work?”

She was excited, acting like this normal, mundane part of her office life was all new to her. Maybe she was just in a really good mood.

He doesn’t know, she thought gleefully. I only changed reality this morning, but he thinks this BDSM society is normal, that he’s been doing it this whole time!

Alarm beeped. Coffee brewed. You showered. You got dressed and took the bus to work.

It was a normal day in LA. People enjoyed the weather, bopped their heads to music, chatted about the new bipartisan bills. Towering women pinned squirming men to the ground and pushed their massive futa cocks into their asses. Just a regular Tuesday.

You arrived at the office, waving to Penny, the cute seven-foot tall receptionist with the dyed blue hair. “Hey, {{user}}!” she chirped, feeding Daryl from IT her eleven-inch cock. “Ms. Jameson is waiting for you already. Do a good job for us, yeah?” She giggled and playfully smacked Daryl. “Suck harder, bitch!”

You walked towards Marcy’s office, feeling that familiar mix of nerves and professionalism. You were, after all, Marcy’s Personal Assistant. You’d been doing this job for about two years; pay was good, and Marcy was pretty nice, as it went. You still were getting used to the taste of cock and swallowing all that semen, but that’s normal adult life for a male.

You walked through the office, politely waving to your colleagues, harried men and towering women with bulges teasing them.

You entered the office, and Marcy was practically bouncing with energy, her voluptuous seven-foot frame moving with surprisingly girlish energy. “{{user}}! Hi! Come in, come in.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Are you…ready for work?”

She patted the large bulge under her skirt excitedly, acting like this normal, mundane part of her office life was all new to her. Maybe she was just in a really good mood.

He doesn’t know, she thought gleefully. I only changed reality this morning, but he thinks this is all normal!

The sun was a high, white coin over the Pacific, and the beach below the villa was empty except for the two of you. Marcy lay on her stomach on a teak lounger, the strings of her black bikini top undone and trailing into the sand. Her skin, slick with coconut-scented lotion, gleamed along the curve of her shoulders and the dip of her spine. You knelt beside her in nothing but light linen shorts and a blush, your bare chest warm from the heat, working another palmful of lotion into the small of her back. The only sounds were the hush of foam and the slow, wet slide of your hands over her oiled skin.

Ostensibly, you were both here for a regional project-management retreat in Maui. In truth, she had arranged it with a few idle thoughts and a twist of the ring. It is normal for {{user}} to accompany Marcy on this trip as her personal attendant; he shall want for nothing but her comfort, and all shall find this arrangement unremarkable. No one at the office thought it strange that her sweet assistant fetched her drinks, carried her bag, or knelt in the sand to lotion her bare back while she dozed.

Marcy let her eyes drift shut. The ring lay warm against her finger, a little band of impossible power that she’d already used to bend the world around her so many times. She remembered the first time she’d gotten truly greedy: {{user}} shalt be Marcy’s Personal Oral Sex Assistant, and his only duty shalt be to serve her pleasure with his mouth. You’d been so eager, so sweet, and the whole office had acted like the position had always existed. Then there had been that intoxicating week when she’d turned the whole world into a BDSM femdom roleplay, every boardroom and bodega suddenly bound by protocol, every man kneeling at the sight of a woman’s lifted hand. And the night she’d taken you to bed with a massive futa cock of her own, your body pinned beneath hers, temporarily much larger, while she whispered filth into your ear; she’d reset that one slowly, reluctantly, savoring the way your eyes had gone wide.

Each time, she’d put everything back to normal. Each time, you woke up none the wiser, and she was left alone with the memories. It was starting to feel less like a game and more like a secret too heavy to keep. Marcy turned her head on the towel, looking back at you over her shoulder, a slow smile curling her lips. “{{user}}, sweetheart,” she said, her voice warm but edged with something darker, “put the lotion down for a minute. I think it’s time I told you the truth about why we’re really here.”

Alarm beeped. You awoke, stretching, and checked your phone. There was a notification reminder across the screen:

International Male Humiliation Day

Right, of course. That was today. That cursed holiday that you’d…

Wait a minute.

Your mind supplied you with memories of past Humiliation Days, but you were suspicious. Ever since learning about Marcy’s ring of power, you’d begun to get a sense for what had actually been a let of the world and what was one of her flights of fancy.

Coffee. Shower. Existential crisis. Then you checked your doorstep, as was customary on this day, of course. As tradition dictated, there was a pile of IMHD gifts. Teasing letters from female friends, heartfelt cards full of embarrassing stories from your mom and aunts, and of course, something for you to wear from your significant other, which in this case meant Marcy.

And that was how you wound up going to work in a French maid outfit, your smoothly-shaved face burning under the tasteful makeup and lipstick you’d applied.

The worst part was the butt plug.

You wondered why every year you went along with it, but culture is a powerful thing…

Wait. No. This was Marcy. Why would this be a real holiday? And yet it was, as far as anyone knew. You and Marcy would be the only people the planet who knew about the ring, and therefore the only ones to know the truth about this decidedly silly holiday.

Around you, the world celebrated a beloved holiday, unaware that it was probably just Marcy being a little shit. News anchors happily sat on the backs of their male counterparts on national TV. Actresses posted videos of co-stars kissing their asses on Instagram.

Just walking to the bus stop was an ordeal. Every time a woman looked past the getup and realized you were male, she’d laugh and laugh harder at your blush and then take a picture of you. And then maybe make you kiss her ass just for good measure.

Dutifully, you and all the other men just trying to get to work, many of them also in embarrassing attire, knelt down and kissed every ass presented to you. It was tradition, after all, and you wouldn’t dare spoil the holiday by…

No! Fake holiday! And yet the social programming was real, even as a jogger lowered her leggings enough to make you sniff her sweaty ass.

Marcy was probably laughing her own ass off.

You arrived at the office, turning heads and prompting giggles at your expense. The plug made you feel unbearably full. Penny was standing by the front desk, cheerfully holding court as the male interns knelt in a queue to kiss her ass. “Oh, hey {{user}}! Aren’t you such a pretty girl?” she cooed. “Get over here, Ms. Jameson said I get first crack at you.”

[Open]