The Audit

We were all guys in our early twenties, go-getter types who were down to work long hours at low pay for the firm. Assistants, all hoping to become Vice President — all of us indoctrinated to want the title during lavish sales meetings in Vegas, Miami, Rio.

Above us towered a great pyramid of human ambition built tall by human attrition, and we had been allowed to enter on the bottom floor. All of us were so focused on the title ahead of us, "VP", that we barely noticed our corporation employed a total of 783 Vice Presidents in offices internationally, and under each of them, a secretary.

The first signal that something was wrong was when they called us all into the breakroom for a "Lunch & Learn." It was no mystery to any of the new assistants they had been cooking the books for years through creative payroll accounting.

"In three weeks, we will be audited, at which time our Assistant roles in this office need to be culled by twenty. Everything in office needs to appear how it is in the books and we need to get started today. We need all of you pulling up your bootstraps to help us get through this. To say it succinctly: We need twenty fewer Assistants and twenty more Secretaries — just for a few weeks. And at the end of this, when the dust has settled, you'll all be promoted," the Senior VP of Office Relations smiled proudly, "to Sr. Assistants!"

The assistants clapped softly as they looked around nervously. Our branch office only had twenty assistants. All of us would be demoted to Secretaries for three weeks — it was fine, but it didn't exactly shout stability.

They had called in lunch for all of us. They did this when they were announcing anything negative. I looked at the spread. Sandwiches from the deli and at the end, in place of the usual pitchers of coke, tea, and water, were pitchers of a glittery pink fluid. I watched as the Vice President of HR put on latex gloves, threw his tie over his shoulder, and began pouring tall glasses with the beverage.

The liquid was sweet. Refreshing. I felt lightheaded. For a moment the room was peaceful and serene. We ate quietly.

After the last bites of lunch, about when it was time to head back to our desks, the breakroom suddenly devolved into a bone-cracking, moaning mess. Rocked by the pink mixture settling in our tummies and inundating our beings with estrogen and DNA-shifting agents, we fell to the industrial carpet, rolling as we shrunk in our business suits. Breasts sprouting, cocks condensing, legs rounding into pleasant curves. We were becoming idyllic Firm secretaries. Tight, attractive, slim — the kind who populated the executive office suites of our company, women who were largely off limits to assistants.

The Vice President of Cultural Standards spoke above the din of moaning and struggle. "You will all be signed a name and an executive superior for the next three weeks, I will begin reading out the names. Pay attention! Johnny Kinkare. Your name is now Cindy Amaranth. Your new superior is Vice President Roberts. Mark Prolts! Your name is now Lexi Marzipan. Your new superior is Vice President Anderson. . . " And thusly, as my nipples pressed divots into my dress shirt, he rattled off our names and assignments.

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The second signal that something was wrong came a week later.

I had seen them walk by my cubical: the VP of Finance — Rick — and my close work friend Tommy, aka the new Annette Braston. Before the VP of Finance had shown little attention to any of us assistants. But over the last few days it was clear he had seen potential in Annette, his assigned secretary.

"How's it working for the VP of Finance?"

"Oh, I'm having so much fun," Tommy said, swaying his hips. "We're heads-down on an important investment project. He says I'm a natural." I brushed my hair back and nodded, slightly jealous of how much face time Tommy was getting.

The moans started softly. The office grew quiet. All of us turned from our work. Listening. Then, a figure appeared, silhouetted in the brushed glass of the VP of Finance's office.

We all felt it in our pussies. Annette screamed out as Rick railed her. If this were a normal day, the office banter would have fired up. The guys would have cheered Rick on. Instead we listened, shuffling in our seats, getting wet, all of our bodies secretly responding to what our coworker was experiencing just a wall away.

By now our cycles had synced, and I felt to my chagrin a drop of fluid running down my thigh. All twenty of us were ovulating — horny and desperate to be fucked, though all nineteen of us would deny it. The twentieth rode like a champ, the bravest of us all, a cock plunging delightfully at her center, on fire and led by invisible forces within that said to fuck, breed, mate. Rick was a catch. She took him deep.

We had all wanted to land a secretary. And in some way, we realized Tommy was doing just that. Except he was the one being landed. We could hear him being thrown around Rick's office, in passion, moving into a position, enjoying it, and then moving again. It was rough sex. Male instincts were still very much alive in Tommy, and they sublimated through his womanly architecture into passionate female expression. When Tommy — I mean — Annette — started screaming Yes over and over again I wanted to touch myself. I grabbed a pen and held on, biting my lip. Every yes was a thrust. Every thrust was upending Tommy's identity for good.

They were close. We all could feel it. After a week as women, we knew what close sounded like. And it showed. Our walks had taken on a feminine sway. Some of guys had started accessorizing. All of us had started wearing makeup. No one uttered a word at these changes. Instead we complimented each others outfits, secretly judging and assessing how to get a leg up in the office.

Listening on, it was disconcerting how I felt about it. My desires weren't coalescing to want to fuck Annette. My desire was to bend over my desk, display my sex, and wait my turn.

Rick wasn't letting up. Annette cheered him on, positively taken in her new position. "That's right. Fuck me with your thick cock. Come inside me. Please!"

"Oh god," I whispered softly to Brian — now Dakota — who was sitting beside me. She shook her head, trying to act like she didn't like it.

At that moment the Senior Vice President of Sales, James, strolled in and snapped his fingers. "Everybody get back to work!"

The office snapped immediately back to a bustle of papers and keyboard keys, nearly drowning out the din of Annette screaming, "Oh fuck, I love you. Yes! It's so warm. Put it deep!"

"Daniella?"

I steadied my hand and looked back at my spreadsheet.

"Daniella!"

I leaped up, remembering my new name.

"Yessir?!" I turned, meeting the gaze of James, the Senior Vice President of Sales, looking at me from across the cubical farm.

"I'm meeting with some important clients about the Waithe Account tonight. I need you to join me. Close up and pack your laptop. Candice has some clothes waiting for you in the ladies' lounge. Go get ready."

I nodded. I stood and collected my things, hearing the faint slurp of Tommy cleaning up after Rick.

My night was about to get interesting.

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Well — this day turned out different than I had imagined.

I wonder how much that dinner was. Course after course, wine pairings — I've never had a meal like that. James pulled out his corporate credit card and paid for the entire table. Mr. Waithe seems pleased. We are totally going to land this sale.

A little to my consternation, I see why he invited me. It's clear James understands the type of woman Mr. Waithe enjoys. It's a shame the machinations of corporate life involve such stupid posturing. I would feel like mere eye candy if James hadn't of pulled me aside after dinner and told me what an incredible job I'm doing selling our services. He even promised me I'd make commission for this deal, ending with an excited, "Me and you are going places!"

I like how Mr. Waithe is looking at me. Yes. . . you can look but you can't touch. I return his gaze with confidence. Fuck Sr. Assistant. If we make this sale, I'm already a rich woman. I wink with both of my eyes, subtle enough to give me plausible deniability, but enough to entice Mr. Waithe.

Mr. Waithe shuffles in his seat, no doubt becoming as turned on as Tommy made all of the new ladies in the secretarial pool this afternoon. I don't mind if he gets hard. I don't mind making him hard. Part of my job was to dial up the heat in the room. Provide a little tension. I had gotten ready accordingly.

I'm glad James had clothes waiting for me before this meeting, because my panties were soaked through from listening to the moans coming out of Tommy's tight new throat. It was hard not to rub one off in the Executive Wing woman's room. I got ready, glad that I had gone by the nail shop yesterday evening.

Suggestion goes a long way. And while I have no interest in Mr. Waithe in the slightest, I'm okay with being his fantasy. I sit and listen politely, moving slowly, stoking his imagination. I wonder what he's thinking.

You'd like that, wouldn't you, Mr. Waithe?

The night goes on. Another glass of wine. Then another. The deal nearing being settled. We sit together in the lounge, working late, unbeknownst to us that Tommy and Rick are thundering through the night in Rick's luxury car, on their way to Vegas to get married. Tomorrow, when we arrive in the office, they will be on paid leave.

The rumors will get around. And — like Mr. Waithe stealing glances at my breasts — the fantasies of the secretary pool will suddenly be inflamed imagining Rick and lovely Annette on their honeymoon. Our tummies will fill with butterflies, knowing it could happen to any one of us. Did Tommy expect he'd be attending an office babyshower by the end of this year? I bet not. I think back to the pink drink at the Lunch & Learn. Tommy's ticket was one-way.

And here I sit, sipping wine, feeling in control, occasionally sparing a sympathetic thought for Tommy being fucked in the office, feeling myself separate and above it all, but resolved to diving my fingers inside of me when I arrive home tonight. It's funny how I'm not considering that I am just as easily a candidate for becoming a wife getting fucked on a kitchen table as I am finishing these three weeks to become a Sr. Assistant.

It's an image that doesn't enter my mind. But that doesn't mean, in some plane of reality, it isn't playing out. For now, blissfully unaware of it, I sip wine and deal.

The meeting draws to a close. We ink the deal. Mr. Waithe tucks his erection into his pants and goes home.

James smiles, closes the door, and pours me another glass of wine. "Amazing work, Daniella." I smile and nod sardonically at the creativity of Corporate — my real name is Daniel, but I'm fairly certain that before this James had no idea who I was.

But tonight — deal done, my commission secured — I can be Daniella if he wants.

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Thank you for reading! I foresee more to this one.