Rosie's First Day

Rosie stepped out of the cab, avoiding a puddle to preserve the shine of her three-inch patent leather heels.  She had bought them specifically for the occasion - her first day at her first college internship - and meant to keep them clean. 

As she walked into the swank Manhattan high-rise, she reflected that she was lucky to have this job at all.  At nineteen, she was younger than most girls admitted to the world of business.

She knew she was very young to be taken seriously, and so she had made sure to look every bit the grown-up - her light grey skirt-suit accentuated the very adult curve of her hips, and the cream-colored silk camisole with its lacy border fell softly but sensuously over her C-cups, leaving just enough cleavage to hold her own with the boys.  Her heels were professional but striking, and brought her up to a height of five feet, four inches.  No one could see that she had on thigh-high stockings instead of normal pantyhose, of course, but business was all about self-cofidence.  The rosy pink thong and bra she wore definitely helped her to feel like a real adult.  And she had pinned up her long, golden hair in an effort to look a little less like a co-ed.

She stepped off the elevator on the fifteenth floor, and headed for the suite that held Mr. Jones's offices (she wasn't quite sure what this small company did, but she was here to learn, after all).  She passed a tall and rather well-built repair man on her way, and felt his eyes traveling up the backs of her long, slim legs.  She smiled discreetly to herself.

She stepped inside and found the reception desk empty, as expected.  It was Saturday.  She had eagerly agreed to come in on the weekend, to let Mr. Jones show her the ropes one-on-one.  She hoped it would reflect well on her work ethic.

"Rosie."

She stopped in her tracks.  Mr. Jones's deep, confident voice had impressed her even when they were just making small-talk during her very short interview; now that he was her boss, it sounded almost startlingly authoritative.  He walked into the reception area and waved her down the hall ahead of him with a tight, fatherly smile.  He was a tall man, over six feet, somewhere between forty and fifty; he looked normal enough, Rosie thought, but there was something in the way he moved that made her think he was physically more powerful than his suit and tie could reveal.

"That'll be your desk," he said, pointing out a small desk situated right beside his own office door. "It's not much, I know, and it's hardly ideal to be out in the hall - but we're short on space."

"Oh, it's perfect," Rosie said with a smile, nodding her thanks as he showed her into his office, holing the frosted-glass door for her.  "I love being in the middle of things."

"That's great."  He took her purse for her, setting it off to one side of the large wooden desk.  "And I'm sorry it's so hot in here - we've got someone working on the air conditioner, but you know how that goes.  Feel free to make yourself comfortable."

Rosie smiled.  It was a bit oppressive in the small office.  She started to take off her jacket, turning towards the door where the coat-hooks were.

And then something slammed against her back, and she was pinned face-first against the glass door, her arms trapped inside her suit jacket, which Mr. Jones had grabbed and twisted behind her.  She gasped as he shoved his leg between her knees and jerked up on the jacket, immobilizing her.

"What are you doing?" she yelled, struggling frantically against his weight, but to no avail.  He slammed her into the door again, knocking the breath out of her.

"Shut up, slut, or I'll push you through that fucking door."  Rosie was gasping for air.  She felt like her knees were about to give way under her - she had to stop thrashing.  The pain in her shoulders was growing.  She felt a rough, strong hand sliding up her thigh, and she whimpered.

"Please, no -"

"I said shut up."  His fingers slid between the lacy tops of her stockings and the smooth flesh of her thigh.  She felt his hot breath on the nape of her neck as he let the elastic snap back into place.  "Very nice."  She closed her eyes tightly as he felt along the curve of her ass - whimpered again as he gave her a firm pinch there - and started shaking her head as he started sliding her thong slowly, painfully slowly, down along her legs.

The flimsy pink panties fell to her knees, where Mr. Jones's leg held her pinned to the door.  Tears were blurring her vision.  Rosie had never had sex before - not real sex, not the kind where something actually went inside of her - and she knew that the first time was supposed to hurt.  She had never wanted it to be like this - he was old enough to be her father!

"Mr. Jones," she started again, weakly, her voice shaking, "Please, don't - I'll do anything - oh!"

He had plunged two of his fingers into her without warning.  They were long and rough and dry, and she instinctively pressed her thighs closer together to try to keep out the intrusion.  Her laughter was deep and cruel and close to her ear as he felt and probed and turned his fingers inside of her.

"Jesus.  You're the best-dressed virgin I've ever met.  Lucky me."  He removed his leg from between her knees, and let her thong fall around her ankles.  "Step out of that.  Now."

Trembling, Rosie lifted on foot and then the other, her breasts mashed painfully up against the door as he leaned down to pick up the discarded underwear.  Then suddenly he released her, and she turned, back pressed flat against the door, to watch tearfully as he deposited her panties, purse and jacket into one of his desk drawers.  He locked it.  She felt her heart sink.

Mr. Jones sat in the large black leather chair behind his desk, and opened up a file, not even looking at her.  Rosie tried to open the door discreetly - maybe she could get away -

"I hope you're going to get me a cup of coffee, slut.  Try anything else and I'll send everyone in your cell phone a nice picture of that whore's underwear you were wearing."

Rosie's face started burning.  She opened the door and walked unsteadily out to the coffee pot in the reception area.

"I take my coffee black," Mr. Jones's voice called out after her.

She poured coffee into one of the styrofoam cups, thinking.  Maybe she could throw it in his face - but he was strong enough that he could take her to the floor with one hand, she had already felt that.  It wouldn't do her any good.

She almost dropped the coffee anyway, when she approached his desk again.  Mr. Jones was leaning back in his chair, his belt unbuckled and his fly open, running one hand up and down his huge, rigid cock.  Rosie looked down at the cup of coffee in her hands, biting her lower lip.  She thought it must be nine inches long, and thicker, much thicker than her hairbrush handle, the only thing she had ever masturbated with.

<i>Maybe he only wants me to suck it</i>, she thought desperately, trying not to think of how it would feel to be impaled on something that big, when his fingers had caused her such shame and discomfort.  <i>Maybe that thing won't have to go inside of me.</i>

"Bring me my coffee, slut."  His tone was such that she found herself walking towards him without having decided to do so.  "And then come sit on daddy's lap."

Rosie paled, and shivered as she set the coffee on the desk.  "You're not my dad."

He grabbed her wrist with such force that she thought it would bruise right there.  "I'm whatever I tell you I am, you fucking cunt.  Now come here."  He jerked down on her arm, giving her no choice.  Rosie swayed in her heels and fell onto his knee, just barely catching herself on the desk.  She sat up primly, hoping maybe this was all he wanted.  She could just sit on his knee, and let him do what he wanted back there.

But Mr. Jones leaned forward, reached around Rosie with both arms, and placed his hands on her stockinged knees.  He began slowly spreading them apart as he brought his own legs together.  Rosie's skirt started riding higher and higher up her thighs.  She started to cry, quietly, defeated.  She knew what was going to happen.  And then the feeling started building between her legs.

When Mr. Jones had Rosie straddling his knees, he reached under her ass and hiked her skirt up far enough that her bare pussy was pressing against his pant legs.  Rosie shifted uncomfortably, feeling herself getting warmer.  She knew Mr. Jones could feel it, too, because he took a moment to run a finger ever so lightly along her slit before he pulled his hand out again, grabbed her hips, and started lifting her up into position over his cock.  She wobbled slightly in her heels as she tried to balance and resist his grip at the same time, although she knew it was useless.  She was pulled further and further back until she felt the head of his cock touching the entrance to her cunt.  She sobbed.

"So, tell daddy," he was saying softly, just holding her there, driving her crazy with fear, "How's school?"

"Please, Mr. Jones," she cried, her thighs tensing with the effort of keeping herself from falling onto that terrifying tool, "Please -"

"Call me daddy, you stupid slut."  His voice was harsh again, loud and cold and just as frightening as every other part of him.  "Now what are they teaching you?"

Rosie closed her eyes, and decided to play along rather than risk his anger.  She had never felt so humiliated.  "They're teaching me ... math, daddy," she answered, choking back her tears.

"You're in college, bitch.  I know they're not teaching you math."

Rosie's hips were starting to try to move of their own accord, and she felt a wetness seeping out of her.  She wanted to scream.  Instead, she politely said: "Business, daddy.  They're teaching me business."

"Good," he said, soft and dangerous again.  "Then you can stay with daddy for a long, long time."  And he began to pull her down onto his cock.

Rosie could do nothing as Mr. Jones entered her soft, virgin body.  She put her hands on his knees and cried, feeling as though he was going to split her in half.  "No," she moaned, arching her back as Mr. Jones's cock hit a spot inside of her that made her buck her hips once.  She tried to pull herself off of him, using all of her strength -

And he kicked her feet out from under her.  She gave a little scream as she fell onto his lap, as he grabbed her wrists to deny her any support, as his cock buried itself inside her cunt.  She felt like something was coming apart inside of her.  Her mouth hung open and the tears started running down her face.

"Don't disobey daddy, slut.  Now work that ass."  When Rosie simply sat there, stunned, he slapped her hard on the outside of her thigh.  "I said move, slut.  Move!"

And so Rosie started to move her hips, wanting to die of shame - he wanted <i>her</i> to fuck <i>him</i>.  He leaned back in his chair and she slid her ass back and forth by about and inch, but it was too hard, the thing inside of her was too big and too painful, and every time it touched that spot inside of her she felt like she felt her legs spread a little, like her pussy was hungry for it, and she wanted to crawl under a rock somewhere and die.

Mr. Jones put his hand up under her camisole while she was trying to get into a rhythm, and shoved one of her bra cups away like it hadn't even been there.  He started squeezing, kneading and pinching her tit.  When he grabbed ahold of her nipple and twisted, Rosie had to stop her pathetic attempts to grind against him, she was so overcome with shame and an entirely new kind of pain.

"Fucking useless cunt."  In a flash he grabbed a letter opener from his desk, and before Rosie could scream, he had sliced his skirt off of her and thrown it on the floor.  He stood and pulled all the way out of her, and the absence of his cock made her gasp, almost as shocking as its sudden presence.  He stood her up, kicked her legs wide apart, and shoved her chest down roughly onto his desk, crushing her breasts under her.

"When I was in school, at least the girls knew how to fuck back."  Rosie winced, and closed her eyes again.  "Better grab on, slut.  Daddy's going to take you for a ride."  He gathered the back of her camisole up in one hand, to use it like a harness.  And then he slammed into her.  The desk rocked.  Rosie let out a strangled noise.  Taking him slowly, inch by inch, had been bad enough - but this was different.  This was brutal.

He started fucking her, thrusting in and out of her with such force and speed that her upper body was bouncing up and down on the desk, her tits sliding over the mess of papers he had made there.  "You do what daddy tells you, slut" he was saying, "You stupid fucking cunt."  Her arms were flailing desperately, trying to grab onto the desk like she had been told, to stop the bruising attack on her chest - but his cock kept hitting that spot again and again, over and over and over, and she was going wild.  She felt him twitching and bucking inside of her, and something hot and fluid started filling her up. 

Mr. Jones's cock started to slide out of her.  She finally managed to grab onto the desk, only to knock over his cup of coffee.  It spilled all over his papers, and soaked her camisole and bra.  But all she could feel was that his cock was gone, that there was nothing inside of her, nothing to touch that place, and she needed it.  She needed it more than she had ever needed anything.

"Please," she whimpered, pushing her ass out to him, reaching one hand down between her legs to try to touch herself.  "Please, daddy."

With a curse, he grabbed her by her hair and dragged her up to a standing position.  He sliced her top and bra off of her with the letter opener.  The stained clothes fell to the floor leaving her wearing nothing but her heels and thigh-highs.  There was a cruel glint in his eyes as he smiled at her.  "Look at the mess you made for daddy."

He zipped his pants back up, buckled his belt, and then dragged her out of his office.  He kicked the desk chair away from the desk in the hall that was going to be hers, and made her kneel down in front of the desk, facing away from it.  He grabbed a pair of cables from the back of the computer sitting on the desk, and lashed her ankles to its legs.  Her thighs were spread wide, the harsh industrial carpet digging into her knees.  Rosie felt Mr. Jones's seed spilling down her leg.

Mr. Jones used another cable to tie Rosie's hands behind her back.  Then he slid his tie around her neck and tied it tightly to the handle of the desk drawer just behind her head.  As he stood back to take her in, Rosie realized he was going to leave her there.  All she could feel between her legs was the occasional breeze, and that wasn't enough.  She needed him to be inside of her.

"Please -" His hand cracked against the side of her face, and she cried out.  Mr. Jones disappeared into his office, leaving Rosie to writhe alone.  She bucked her hips into the air, pulled at her bonds, tried to bring her thighs together, anything that might satisfy the unbearable need in her cunt.  But nothing worked.

A few minutes later, Mr. Jones walked out, looking much tidier, and carrying a briefcase.  He also carried a garbage bag that looked like it held her clothes.  He stopped in front of her, and laughed.

"Daddy's little girl is a real slut, isn't she?  Don't worry, cunt - my partner, Mr. Smith, will be in on Monday morning.  He's going to be your daddy, too.  And then I think your new home will be over there."  He pointed at the reception area.  "I don't know what kind of business you think you know, but I would rather see you receive.  That's what sluts are for."

He shut off all the lights, walked out, and locked the door, leaving Rosie to grind her hips hopelessly against nothing.