Author’s note:
It’s been a long time since I’ve posted on here—I hope my return is welcome! This story is based on the old MasterPC trope. I’ve tried to give it more of what I felt was a realer take, both in technological as well as motivational aspects. Feel free to let me know if this was successful. This is the fourth story I’ve written set in the Gen-U-Tech world, the first of which was Dr. J.Eckels and Mrs. Whore, and two other stories that have futa elements and are thusly published on Literotica instead. None are critical to each other, but they are tangentially-related and have some tie-ins that make it a little more fun when read together.
Feedback is always welcome.
PGAD
Prologue
Stanley stood in line, shifting restlessly. He wasn’t sure if he’d been waiting for over an hour yet, but it sure as hell felt like it. His goddamn feet ached and all he wanted to do was get home and sit down on the couch in front of the TV for the rest of the night with a 12-pack of cold beers.
Still, he shouldn’t be complaining. After all, he was still on the clock, and when was the last time he got paid to do nothing? Gen-U-Tech Labs was a big ass building, and there was always hallways needing mopping or sweeping, garbage cans that had to be emptied, bathrooms that needed cleaning. Hell, there were five other janitors assigned full time to the giant ass cafeteria alone.
But it had been a long day, and his damn feet hurt, and if the line were at least freaking moving it might help, instead of crawling an inch at a time. He should have just left after his shift, but hey, free was free, even if it was a poke in the arm, and then getting paid on top of it to wait, well… the way he looked at it, tonight’s 12-pack would be on Gen-U-Tech’s dime.
He finally got to the front of the line and then was called in.
“Hello, badge please.” The lab tech was polite, but Stanley knew the guy didn’t recognize him, even though he’d been right here in this very room a dozen times over the last month, changing out biohazard boxes and restocking supplies. But, oh well... he was used to being ignored. Nobody gave a rat’s ass about the janitor.
He handed his badge over and the tech scanned it. “Have a seat here, Stanley,” the tech said, reading his name off the screen and gesturing toward a stool. “When was your last flu shot?”
“I ain’t never had one,” Stanley said, rolling up his sleeve and slinging his arm up on the counter. “But hey, free is free, am I right or am I right?” He gave a toothy grin, but the pencil neck only gave him a small uptight smile in return.
“Just hold still, here…”
The lab tech stuck him in the arm, and Stanley felt a bit of a stinging chill as he was injected. Then the needle was withdrawn and replaced with a wad of gauze taped down. “Put some pressure on that for a few minutes.”
“No problem, thanks, Doc,” Stanley said, standing up. “That was pretty quick, if only it didn’t take all damn day to get in here, huh?”
The tech gave him another prissy smile and gestured toward the door. Stanley walked out and nearly collided into someone.
“Whoa, hey, watch it, lady!” Stanley exclaimed before he saw who it was. “Oh hey, I mean… sorry, miss, ’scuse me.. ’Scuse me very much…”
It was one of the big wigs from the top floor, the brunette broad. She blinked and gave him a quick polite smile, backing away a few paces before stepping around him, adjusting her jacket and smoothing her skirt. “It’s fine, really.”
She put her hand on the knob of the door, before looking back apologetically at the guy who’d been standing behind Stanley, now at the front of the line. “Sorry, you don’t mind if I go first, do you? In a bit of a rush...”
The guy threw her a relaxed wave, and only made a face after she gave an appreciative smile and stepped into the room. What a schmo.
Stanley looked back and was able to catch a glimpse of her ass just before the door swung shut. Lucky for her, he liked a gal with some meat on her. This one mighta been a little hefty, even for him, but hell… wasn’t nothing he’d kick outta bed.
Freakin’ broads, he thought as he passed the opposite direction of the winding line, giving some of the maintenance guys he knew a nod. They got everything in the freakin’ world, even the big ones. Everybody standing in line all damn day, and here she gets to waltz right up to the front, fancy-free as you please.
But as he stepped outside, all Stanley was thinking about was that 12-pack. Hell, it was way past beer o’clock.
“Hi, I’m Sara Davis,” the brunette said with a perfunctory smile as she entered, holding her badge out.
Chris didn’t bother to take it, naturally. “Oh, of course, Ms. Davis, I know who you are…”
“Well, that’s flattering..!” A rehearsed managerial response, deliberately intended to portray genial warmth and disarming friendliness, to let the recipient feel as though equal in rank, delivered with experienced poise; but Chris was both puzzled and wary. All day long, it’d been sticking needles into maintenance guys, lab technicians, maybe an admin or two. Never mind that this wasn’t even his job in the first place—what was an executive doing here?
As if he’d asked it aloud, she said, ”I’d heard we were doing a flu vaccine drive this year. What a great idea! I never have the time to go get one…”
He wasn’t at all sure if it were true or not, but nonetheless, Chris directed the woman to sit and prepared another dose, then administered it the same as he had to the dozens of other Gen-U-Tech employees who streamed in continuously all day long.
“Ugh,” Ms. Davis grimaced as she stood, pressing against the gauze taped to her arm. “Now I remember why I don’t get these..!
“Well, thank you anyway,” she added as she headed toward the door. “It’s been nothing but fun..!”
Chris glanced at the mirror in the rear of the room as the woman departed, and indeed even as he did so, a second door just adjacent to it opened, and a man in a crisp business suit stepped out of the small room, which held a few other executives, similarly dressed, seated comfortably around a table holding a bottle of scotch and some glasses as they privately watched the shots being administered through the one-way glass.
Chris frowned at the lit cigarette in the man’s hand. Such a flagrant violation of lab protocol, here and anywhere else.
“...the fuck was she was doing down here..?” The man stared at the door his colleague had just departed from as though he could see right through it, taking a long drag, eye cocked with interest. “Which one did she get, anyway?”
Chris bristled again in annoyance. “I really have to renew my objections. I shouldn’t even know which subjects are getting the formula vs. the placebo, let alone sharing that data with anyone.
“Double-blind, randomized trials are the gold standard of—”
“Look, egghead,” the executive interrupted sharply, turning his focus from the door back to Chris with swift abruptness. “Stop talking for a minute. Fucking scientists… Always trying to tell you something they think you’re asking…
“Listen, just forget whatever the fuck it is you think I wanna know, cause really… I don’t. Just answer the question I’m asking.
“Which. One. Did. She. Get?” He pointed toward the door with his index and middle finger, the cigarette trapped between them, smoke drifting up in soft curls.
Chris returned the stare with one of his own, a bit defiantly—but this guy was such an asshole—before giving a great, huffy sigh and then he picked up the vial he had just used to inject Ms. Davis. He read the numbers off the label then turned and punched it into the computer.
The result popped up a moment later.
“It was the formula,” he said.
“She got the formula.”
1.
“Check it, I finally got to take this thing out.”
“Holy shit..! What is that, a 60-footer?”
“60, pssssh! It’s 65.”
Sara was getting a bit steamed. They weren’t even trying to keep it down. She was so fed up with working here, tired of wading through the same muck as these other pigs that somehow passed for corporate leadership. The misogyny, the chauvinism. Pretending to laugh at the crass, tasteless jokes. Watching ESPN in the evening so she’d have something to talk about at the water cooler the next morning. Feigning like she wasn’t completely repulsed by the stories of late nights out involving alcohol and drugs, strippers and skanky party girls half their age. As if on cue:
“Ooh, well hello, and who are these tasty little things?”
“Fuck, I never remember the names. They’re like summer snow bunnies, hanging around the pier, looking for a yacht to hop on and party.”
“Dock bunnies?”
“More like dock rats..!”
A few mean-spirited chuckles followed.
It wasn’t anything Sara wasn’t used to. How else could a woman ascend to the C Suite without enduring all of that and knowing how to pretend there was nothing to endure? It was just… here at Gen-U-Tech, it was so excessive, so rampant. Here it was more than just the typical pervasive alpha male culture; it just ran so much deeper… a celebratory wallowing in the very worst of it.
“Goddamn, all three of them on your boat?!”
“Yea, well, had to break ’er in properly...”
Sara wanted to quit so fucking bad… but she knew she wouldn’t, not at the salary she was making. And indeed that was the most disheartening thing about it. The knowledge that she was a cynical, money-grabbing sell-out. A shill for the perfect epitome of the stereotypical evil, soulless, corporate machine. The plucky, bright-eyed college graduate with dreams of changing the world was long gone, trampled over a quarter century of shifting the goalposts of her principles, compromising ideals and convictions bit by bit, slowly replacing them with calculated political shrewdness and career ambition.
And now, here she was, just shy of forty-five, CFO of a multi-billion dollar corporation, seven figures in her bank account, a five-bedroom home, two cars; two ex-husbands, zero kids, eighty extra pounds around her midsection and premature wrinkles; being unceremoniously disregarded in the boardroom by her swine colleagues as she delivered her projections on Q3 earnings.
“GAAP profits calculated out to $22 per share,” she informed her inattentive audience. “Non-GAAP numbers look closer to $28—”
Most of them were simply checked out, either staring off into space or else scrolling disinterestedly on their phones. A few were having side discussions, speaking in muted voices about one issue or another. But no one was blatantly ignoring her to the extent that the two VPs sitting in the back were, huddled together as they scrolled through the pictures on one of their tablets. Thomas and Randall. If Gen-U-Tech was a testament to evil corporations, these two, most especially Thomas, were definitively prime examples of the toxic male culture in the executive world.
“You must’ve made out like a fucking bandit on T175, huh?”
“Ha ha, bro, you have no idea. About goddamn time, too. After that I-New shitshow, I was ready to fucking shoot myself.”
Both came from already wealthy families, Ivy League schools, their positions gained by their privilege, status and connections, as had everything else they had ever gotten in life. There was no shame or self-consciousness in this; a lifetime of entitlement precluded the possibility.
“After this next thing, it’ll be my turn.”
“Hey, so speaking of, check this out…”
It was no wonder they felt no reservations to speak so loudly and rudely, to drink expensive scotch in the boardroom at 10 AM; the largest repercussion they could expect was the occasional rancorous glance from a colleague that had actually risen to his or her position through genuine merit.
Colleagues like that were few and far between at Gen-U-Tech.
And so Sara simply continued on in seething disregard, just one more of the endless micro self-compromises to sacrifice on the altar of career progression, feeling her body temperature beginning to rise.
“Overall revenue is $12.83 billion, which is a year-to-date increase of 18% and 6% over analysts’ projections, which we anticipate increasing share value to...
In the rear, Thomas suddenly let out a loud obnoxious snort as Randall reached over and swiped something on the tablet. They both continued looking down, and there was a series of huge thumps as he roughly clapped Randall on the back.
“Oh no, you didn’t..!”
She felt her face flushing as her eyes scanned across the huge table, seeing very few faces even looking in her direction. Sara felt so warm that she was actually starting to sweat a little, perspiration beading on her forehead.
“Cash flow liquidity continuing into this quarter practically dictates a share buyback in late Q4 or early Q1 of the next.. um… the, uh, upcoming year…”
Something… something was wrong. It wasn’t just her anger, she felt a little faint of breath, starting to trail off. God, it was just so stiflingly hot in here…
“The buyback numbers… uh… my analysts are still working on that…but I project it will be in the neighborhood of… um...”
Sara couldn’t remember the figure, and she didn’t have it written down in her notes either, because she never forgot the numbers. People were starting to look up now. Even Thomas gave her a short glance before turning back to his buddy, pouring him another drink.
“Well… I… I’ll send a note after the meeting with the exact numbers for the buyback proposal…
“Wait—eight! Eight million shares,” she blurted out, suddenly. “That’s... Uh... that’s what we’ll submit to the board…
“For approval…”
Sara could feel herself sweating all over like a hog now, in her armpits, dripping down her back, her butt felt drenched too, the pantyhose stuck uncomfortably in her crack, simultaneously grateful for the cover her blazer provided while cursing it for contributing to the heat retention. Just standing there, she was starting to feel like she’d done ten hard minutes on the treadmill, though who knew when the last time was that she’d ever been on one of those.
She realized that several seconds had passed without her saying anything. She even had Thomas and Randall’s full attention at this point. “Uh..
“Dividends!” She said it louder than she had intended, jerking the few remaining unengaged executives out of their stupors. “We’ll probably end up proposing an increase in dividends to... umm... to…”
Once again, the number eluded her. Sara felt like she was on fire, and her pantyhose were still riding up on her uncomfortably. She shifted around slightly and then she felt it… something of an itch between her legs.
“Umm.. OK, I apologize,” she said, a light tremor in her voice. “The numbers… I’ll just have to circle back on those right after the meeting.”
She wiped the back of her hand across her brow, and it came away slick with sweat. Sara wondered if she looked as throughly sweat-covered as she felt, like she was soaking through her thick dark, skirt suit. Why the hell did she wear wool today anyway? The itch between her legs was still there, and she shifted again, trying to inconspicuously rub her thighs together as she stood there in front of the room.
It was an enormous mistake to do that—it caused a huge wave of sudden, unexpected arousal to wash over her. What the fuck?! Sara couldn’t imagine a less sexy occasion than this exact moment, standing hot, flushed and sweaty in front of the entire executive team, but there was no mistaking it.
There was definitely no mistaking it.
“In summation, Q3 was highly successful for the firm,” Sara spat out, deciding on the spot to cut off her report, desperate to get out of there. She had everyone paying attention now, some looks of concern, but mostly a general puzzlement. “Revenue is way up and—ackk!”
A huge burning spike of pleasure flared up, seeming to emanate directly from her clitoris and Sara nearly yelped out before immediately closing her throat, choking it off in mortification.
“I… I…” she breathed heavily despite herself, unable to think of anything, trying to keep composed despite her body going haywire. “Revenues…”
The itch between her legs was maddening and Sara felt a sudden insane impulse to just yank her skirt up on the spot in front of everyone and rub herself, rub that spot, rub it until she could just get some relief.
What the fuck is happening to me?!
“Revenues are profitable and profit is extremely high, which has resulted in great profits,” she babbled out meaninglessly. Her undergarments were soaked, and Sara knew it wasn’t all sweat that was the cause. Her clit was aching, throbbing painfully, it needed stimulation…
She rubbed her thighs together again, none too subtly, and that was all it took; a huge, pulsing, quaking orgasm washed over her, and her knees nearly gave out, buckling for a moment, and again she choked up, a queer snorting sound escaping through her nose.
“Ok, thank you, I’ll send out that email,” Sara choked out, and she turned and left the room on the spot, her face ablaze, trying with all of her might to appear normal even as the pleasure was crashing over her, wave after wave, with an intensity she had never known before. She glanced back to see people watching her go, murmuring in confusion to each other. And Thomas and Randall in the back, snickering.
She half walked, half ran to the women’s room, bursting into a stall and sat down on the toilet immediately, pushing her skirt down around her ankles, struggling with the waist control pantyhose clinging to her clammy belly and thighs. She ripped at them, the loud tearing sound echoing in the tiled room, and then her fingers were between her legs, rubbing her dripping slit.
“Oh, finally,” she whispered in a shuddering voice, her fingertips moving up and down frantically on her swollen nub. Even as the orgasm had subsided, that maddening itch immediately resumed, that urgent need for satiation.
“Finally…”
She breathed noisily as she sat on the toilet, masturbating wildly. Sara couldn’t believe she was doing this, in a dirty public bathroom at the office, getting herself off like some kind of mindless animal. But it didn’t matter, there was nothing, nothing more important than fulfilling this need, satiating it, making it stop…
The pressure built up again, and she worked her hand faster, roughly, her thighs parted widely, undignified, and then the second orgasm hit. Sara let out a little whimper and then bit her down on her bottom lip hard, her hand still compulsively rubbing herself as her pelvic muscles twitched and convulsed involuntarily.
Sara hunched over, eyes bulging, vision wavering, sweat running down her face as she panted for breath for several moments before eventually coming back down from her peak.
“Jesus… Oh, sweet Jesus…”
She sat there on the toilet, struggling to catch her breath for several long moments. Eventually, she realized that the itch was finally gone, and she felt almost back to normal. With a loud groaning gasp, she staggered to her feet, pulling up her revoltingly sodden panties and then the torn panty hose, large, unsightly runs stretching as they covered her belly again. She pulled her dress shirt down and pulled her skirt over it, roughly tucking it in. Then she stumbled out to the sink.
Her hand was completely disgusting—slimy, wet, covered in her own lubrication. She washed up and then pushed her damp hair back, futilely attempting to arrange it, and did her best to wipe her sweaty, dripping face without ruining her makeup worse than it already was, the mascara running down from the corners of her eyes.
That… that was so fucked up…
She took a series of deep breaths, trying to steady her nerves and regain her composure. It was several minutes before she walked out of the restroom.