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Here's your frosty! Peyeew did you just mess yourself? Maybe you should work here it looks like your a pro at making soft serve haha?.

Disclaimer: https://www.patreon.com/posts/65185502 Content Warnings Extensive Forced Diaper Wearing (Wetting/Messing) Extensive Public and Private Humiliation Extensive Corporal Punishment and Bondage Extensive use of the themes of fear, shame, guilt, and dread Some consensual sexual slavery/servitude themes Occasional Sexual Themes Occasional Sexual Intercourse ***I do not condone any of the events or themes in this story, and do not intend to glorify or advocate that anyone conduct their life in this way. Nobody should model any sort of erotic behavior on the events of this story.*** Previous chapter: -------- Monica’s office was, despite appearances, fully functional. The large desk that ran down the middle might seem absurd to a newcomer, especially since she had a separate, personal desk located at the far end of the room. But a war-room where Monica could control all of the factors, where she could ensure all of the secrecy, was not to be undervalued. The doors along the side that led to servant’s quarters meant that her office and the large table could become a venue of ‘negotiation’ for the most important guests. The private kitchen and attending chef-servant served this essential purpose as well. One never knew when a supreme dish of steak or lobster could turn the tide of a deal. Monica was austere in her personal life. She had no need for excess sets of china or elaborate golden statues. She did not need a phalanx of servants waiting for her at Jannis Villa, and she derived no satisfaction in housing, discipling, and smelling personal slaves. She had never attended the Stentonville gala, save one time when her presence rendered her audiences otherwise difficult to secure. She had donated her gown afterwards, in a highly publicized auction. Monica couldn’t remember who won the dress, or how much it sold for. She certainly didn’t remember what charity all that money went to. If she needed to find out, Delia would have the answer in moments. All she knew was that the empty space where the garish eyesore of a dress had hung in her wardrobe was far more valuable to her than retaining that item of ‘stunning beauty.’ Beauty is power. Some people think that if beauty is attained, power follows. Monica knew better. Beauty was nothing if it could not be converted, and beauty had an inconsistent or nebulous relationship to power. Monica found that there were simpler ways to get what one wanted. Power, believe or not, is the asset that converts most efficiently into further power. Money was good too. Monica sat at her personal desk, the one behind the massive, chestnut-lacquered one that ran the length of the room. She swirled her chair and looked out on the city of Stenton. Her office was not on the top floor, nor was her building the tallest in Stenton. But that didn’t matter to Monica. Nobody had a better view for less. She was sure that ShamProm had paid a fortune for the real estate on their recently finished tower. It gleamed in the tropical sun where it rose from the center of the city’s busiest district. It had a bulbous shape to it, and it seemed to twist and flex as it rose to the clouds. It would take them thirty years to recover that cost even at their current and inflated revenues, and by then, who could know if Stenton was still the hottest place in Shamuria to do business? Maybe their structure would pay dividends, so the claim about the eternal value of real-estate always went, but Monica preferred smaller costs to create opportunities for smarter, faster investments. She knew the CEO of ShamProm, who probably was sitting much like her in her own gaudy office. Little Mindy Topper. The do-gooder of Stenton’s elite, the star CEO, the five-time winner of Stenton’s best businesswoman, and two-time (in a row) winner of Shamuria’s best entrepreneur. Entrepreneur of a gas company started over a hundred years ago. The lucky lady holding the golden goose after Attorney General Angelina Bisgrave rode in on a warhorse and threw them all of her previous bosses in diapers. The thought still made her laugh. She the only person she hated more than Mindy Topper was Vittoria Vincentza, the old CEO who took the biggest fall for the decades-long schemes of embezzlement that almost tore down ShamProm. That there was a cunt for the ages. Monica had worked for Vittoria a decade ago, when she first got out of Business School and got a job at Shamuria’s oldest and largest multinational. Monica was elite, so that meant right off the bat, she was assigned to a team that advised them on their highest corporate strategy. All that was worth, though, was months spent on detailed, foolproof proposals only to have them eviscerated on a whim by Vittoria. Each failed proposal, no matter how perfect, no matter how debased the criticism was, came with it an hours-long tirade into the team’s personal failings. “Selfish, up-jumped, small-brained, myopic servants! I’d have collars around your neck soon, I’ll have you believe it! You think this entire power-point isn’t something I couldn’t have had in a dream, that one of my slaves couldn’t have scribbled while locked in her cage? It’d go on and on, and Monica and her colleagues had to take it until they quit. Monica tried to imagine Vittoria’s rages now. Change my diaper now damnit! You know what I saw in my dreams…that I would get my asswiped now! I now suck the dicks of the slaves I once owned! Ha. The font of truth; Vittoria Vincentza. Monica had no need for slaves. They didn’t perform as much work as servants, and the extra cost of the servant more than made up for the fact that servants didn’t shit themselves. How many dinners had she been to that had been sullied by some ill-timed fart from a slave? Vittoria had had dozens though, in her typical, dominating fashion. She’d parade them around, stark naked, collars and chains holding them together, each of them responsible for holding one of her personal belongings. A slave for her phone, a slave for her purse, a slave who carried a change of close. A slave who carried the diapers for the other slaves who would soon need them. A slave to carry the paddle for any who needed it. Each had some connection to Vittoria; a childhood bully, her valedictorian, the guy who stole her homework, her neighbor who never quieted her dog. If Vittoria knew who you were in elite circles and you went to jail, Vittoria made sure you did your parole in a cage in the basement of her expansive mansion. The memories aroused her. No, there was nothing interesting to her in slaves. It was no fun to own and control someone who had already lost all legal standing. It was much for fun to conquer someone who had a chance, but succumbed to you anyway. That was the difference for Monica; the boredom of everyday dominance, versus the thrill of actual conquest. Vittoria, like Mindy after, bathed in the adulation of a world that bowed for them. Monica spurned that for a more exhilarating route. Greatness only comes when safety is shunned for greater glory, and when time and effort are spent to achieve it. The most thrilling victories were those that were won despite the possibility or probability of defeat. The greatest prizes were those that didn’t even know they could become trophies. There in her office, in her swivel chair looking across the city, past Mindy’s new tower, Monica looked upon the bay. She reached into her skirt and touched herself through her panties. The thought that came to her was not Vittoria in her chains, huddling and squirming as shit filled her diaper. Yes, she’d fantasized about being a fly on the wall of Vittoria’s cell for many years now, but no, that’s not what came to her. Neither did thoughts of Mindy enter her mind. Oh, how pluggable her little asshole must be. Long ago, when Monica had worked for Vittoria, Mindy’s small, mousy self had helped Monica assemble those reports. She too had gone from her elite business school to the soulless grinder of ShamProm's thankless higher circles. Her work ethic had been good, but her ideas were small and predictable, and often her research and conclusions were inaccurate (not that this mattered to Vittoria-everything to her seems inaccurate). If Monica had not watched her closely, Vittoria’s rages might have occasionally had the semblance of a cause. Monica long wanted to spank the little ditzy upstart. And someday she would, when Mindy had run ShamProm into the ground. Monica would have the capital to sweep in and save the pride and joy of Shamuria’s industry, and she’d put a nice leash around Mindy’s neck as an extra part of the package. No, Monica wouldn’t demand Mindy swear herself to slavery. She’d make it voluntary. Yes, little Mindy, it would make great sense for me to come in and save ShamProm, it’s not just that you’ll need me to clean up your mess. Despite that, I’ll let another one, a lesser one, gobble it up. They’ll save it for a time until once again your baby falls into disrepair and the pressure mounts on your neck once again. I can save it forever, I can cover your failings forever, on the condition you stick your little keister on that bulb right there. In fact, the new ShamProm tower did look quite like a buttplug rising out of the Stenton skyline. In her dreams, Mindy ripped her own clothes off, sat herself on the plug un-lubed, and humbled herself before Monica enthusiastically. Monica sighed as her hand touched herself. Vittoria and Mindy were among her favorite dreams. Yet despite the hotness of the real plight of Vittoria and the eventual, imagined one of Mindy, Monica thought of another woman. One much closer by, one right at hand. She turned away from the window and pressed a button on her phone with her free hand. “Delia, I need to see you in my office,” she said. “Yes ma’am, be there right away!” came Delia’s reply. Monica leaned back and exhaled. The feelings were strong. Her wetness oozed through her panties and soaked them. Her nipples stiffened and her bra suddenly felt coarser and tighter around her breasts. The door on the other end of her office, at the end of the massive table, opened just a crack. A woman came through and shut the door behind her, and then began to scurry down the side of the table. Her heels clicked loudly as she made her way across the floor. “Miss Monica, what do you need?” Delia said after she stopped five feet away from Monica’s personal desk. “Come closer,” Monica said. Delia did as she was told immediately. Oh, how she was a pretty, obedient little thing. Dumb as rocks, yes. Her long brown hair and busty tits distracted from an eternal blankness in her stare. Her parents had given her everything, Monica knew, and Delia had tried her very hardest, Monica also knew. All for naught. She couldn’t manage business school, and only because her father flagged her down at the gala last year did his daughter have a job at such an esteemed tech company so close to its leadership. Monica knew better than to hesitate at the request of one of Shamuria’s retired Presidents. Make her something respectable. Give her confidence. But if I were you, don’t rely on her too much. Oh, if Delia ever heard those words! Delia was smart enough, at least, to know she couldn’t cut it. She knew that her role as chief talent executive was ceremonial, at best. She knew that her performance could never actually save her, and that her father bought her all the prestige she owned. She know also knew that in addition to her father, Monica was her best ticket to what her father had called respectable. Delia was a long way off. “Did you do everything I asked of you this morning?” Monica asked. Delia’s lip quivered. “There was a uh, a delay.” Monica had no doubt that the task was impossible. Whether Delia had foreseen it too didn’t matter. Delia would do as she was told with the assumption that Monica’s word was infallible. If she couldn’t live up to it, Delia understood that she wasn’t meant to be anything but a disappointment. Delia never hid from nor avoided being a disappointment. “What were the delays?” Delia searched the floor and the window and through it the skyline of Stentonville for answers, but she found none. Her brown hair was tied back into one long and elegant ponytail. Her black skirt made it only halfway to her knees, and her blouse was one-size too tight. All she wore she wore at the request of Monica. The best part though? Delia didn’t wear panties. She hadn’t for the last six months, since the time when she’d caused quite the snafu at the New Year’s ball for only providing fish-shellfish options as entrees. Not only were the vegetarians and vegans angry, but it turned out many were allergic to the only dish options as well. Delia’s event planning was always lackluster, but so long as she didn’t spend too much, Monica didn’t mind. Employees were fickle anyway, and once they realized that work was not fun, Monica didn’t want to try to keep them. It was better that they moved themselves along, if they could. “Delia, I asked you a question. You’re twenty-four now. Your father didn’t have me put you in charge of an entire function of my company so that you couldn’t find your big girl words and fail to answer a simple question. Peons don’t even have trouble with this sort of thing. Is that what you are, Delia? A peon?” “No ma’am.” “Do you remember what it was like when I busted you down to the mail room like a servant?” “Yes ma’am,” Delia said, biting her lip. Monica could feel Delia’s desire to hurry, to get back to work, to continue to call the union chief to get the answers Monica requested. But the union chief wouldn’t be accepting calls while on his island, and Monica had really been testing Delia’s ability to figure that out. She wanted to touch herself, but she did not. That would be Delia’s job, by the end of the day. “Did you like it?” “It was a good lesson for me ma’am. I have learned the value of a good lesson.” Monica didn’t like that answer. It would have been acceptable a few years ago, but now, Monica wanted more. “Answer my question.” Delia shifted on her heels. She was no longer biting her lip, but it was clear she didn’t want to answer. “Yes ma’am, I liked it,” she said. Delia was so pathetic. She could strike an imposing figure, being nearly six feet tall even without heels. Her slender and lengthy build was naturally commanding. Her posture was sophisticated, and her shoulders and neck made use of every inch given to her. Despite all her elegance, though, Delia was nothing more than a horse. She was the ultra-feminine version of a male grunt. Rather than being a tough chunky bouncer, Delia was the feminized version; lithe and prim, and shared the critical characteristic of being only dimly aware of the yoke around her neck. “I’m not sure I believe you,” Monica said. Then she made a motion with her hand that Delia understood as beckoning her forward. Delia took a step. She widened her stance to permit what would happen next. Monica stuck her hand under Delia’s skirt and felt Delia’s uncovered pussy. Somebody likes her yoke. Monica used the sopping wet vulva as a handle and pulled Delia, who tottered forward on her heels, while letting out the slightest moan. Did Delia understand that she was always going to be yoked? Always going to be serving people? Always going to be outsmarted, always nothing more than a knight or a bishop and not the queen she was bred to be? A knight or bishop was probably too generous. Delia probably thought that service like this would someday set her on the path to becoming something more than her wealth and inborn status could freely grant her. Delia had sisters; all either CEOs or politicians already, and there she was, a lowly senior-vice president of the fifth largest corporation in Shamuria. And barely capable of that. No. Completely incapable. Every employee at Klepin Inc (Monica’s last name was Klepin) knew their human resources bigwig was a buffoon. It was all over forums, brought to Monica directly in this big office by Delia’s own nervous associates. It was whispered in private chats, where employees thought they were secret. It was in the news, where Delia’s father still had enemies. Even Delia’s panty-less punishment made the bottom-barrel periodicals, after Delia had been dumb enough to walk on the crystal staircase on the thirty-seventh floor. Even Delia had to be aware of that. But did she know that despite all of her wealth, despite all the doors that would magically open for her for no reason, Delia would only ever be the recipient of charity? That she would be a pawn for access to her father? Did Delia understand that the wetness Monica now felt in the palm of her hand was the smartest part about Delia, the only part of her that accurately incentivized her to make the good choice. The choice to say ‘yes ma’am’ to those who were actually competent. Delia wasn’t Monica’s real prize. She was a means to an end. She was a dumb tool to be used for her bloodline and her loyalty (the stupid and the poor are generally loyal, because they can find no other choice or can’t realize they have no other choice). Vittoria was already in the freezer, rotting slowly in her shitted diapers. Mindy was the goal. When Mindy worked for Monica, earning her panties wouldn’t even enter her wildest dreams. Still clutching Monica’s vagina, Monica spoke to Delia again. “When you do get ahold of that union chief,” she said “make sure he knows that there are a few more compensation inquiries coming his way.” Delia’s eyes widened. “There are?” “Yes. Don’t you know about them?” Delia squirmed. She knew that Monica would be disappointed that something was happening in Delia part of the company, yet Monica knew about it before her. Monica continued. “We need to make sure we’re doing everything we can,” she said. Delia, whose wetness had surged in the last moments, and who was still perched on Monica’s slowly flexing and unflexing hand, stiffened to an even more severe attention. “Yes absolutely,” she beamed. Her hand stopped flexing and began to caress Delia’s pussy. She had a fleshy opening, and kept herself hairless save for a small tuft at the top. Monica truly loved Delia’s pussy because it hid nothing. Her outer lips could not hold back the deluge of Delia’s submissive frenzy. It was a miracle that Delia didn’t leave puddles wherever she went. Apparently, Delia managed seven slaves back at her private cottage (which was far, far from a cottage), and another seven servants. Daddy gave her a good allowance, Monica certainly didn’t pay her enough for all that. How she could keep them in line was a mystery, though it was perhaps a complement to who must be the sternest majordomo in Shamurian history. All of those who served her, even the ones defecating themselves, must already know all about Delia’s panty-less scandals. The laughter in the servants quarters could start a peasant insurrection. That would be a funny legacy for this elegant yet dense Clydesdale. So dumb that the rabble rose up and rode her like a horse. Monica stuck a finger in, just a single one. “It’s a disappointment you weren’t ready to tell me how much you liked your mailroom time,” she said. “I think I’ll add another month to your current punishment.” Delia replied with a “yes ma’am,” that barely seemed to register Monica’s words. Whatever brains Delia had were lost in a sea of ecstasy. In truth, there were some brains there, and Monica contemplated them after she was finished with her VP of Human Resources. She wiped off the moisture on her hand on Delia’s inner thigh, and had Delia kneel and lick off the rest. “You better have better news for me in the afternoon,” Monica said. “I will,” Delia said, standing and wiping some of her own cum on her mouth. She beamed, and began to make her way down the long table in Monica’s office. Monica’s stomach twisted seeing the cleft in Delia’s skirt that marked the bareness of her buttocks. It was a miracle that nobody just bent her over and humped her in the elevator. “Come back for a second,” Monica called. Delia did what she was told, and assumed a stance a few feet away from Monica. “Back to where you were, how you were.” Delia bit her lip again, and stepped close to Monica’s chair. She made sure her thighs were spread. Monica flatted her had, aimed, and gave Delia a smack on her pussy. Delia groaned. “Now you can go,” Monica said, snapping her fingers. She watched Delia’s butt cheeks flex in her clothes as she went. There were, indeed, just enough brains there. Just enough for Delia to make her own misguided solution to the problems that Monica presented her with. Of course, there was only one solution Delia could come up with given the circumstances. How could a company with the size and impact of Klepin Inc. save so much on labor costs? How could they cut so many corners and avoid so many extra fees and investments in the presence of such a powerful and connected union? Workers all across Monica’s many factories and stores, which distributed everything from adult diapers to assault rifles, were a part of the union. Amazon had no such union, and neither did Alibaba, for all of its talk of being the communist pride and joy of the People’s Republic of China. Monica had simply told Delia that Klepin Inc, needed to compete globally. Delia couldn’t fill in the rest, of course, but Monica guided her to the numbers. Delia could count, at least. Delia could listen to the bottom line of analysts and understand what they told her. Monica got Delia to ask the question Delia couldn’t approach on her own. What’s the number we need to get to? Delia found that number, and knew that the margin they currently were at wasn’t going to cut it. Monica then set her up with the union chief, someone whose intentions she could see from a mile away. Amazon and Alibaba may have no powerful unions to speak of, but those they did have were fresh blood and virile. Klepin’s came from her father’s day, and her grandmother’s before that. It was old, it was ponderous, and it had forgotten its original purpose. In the end, Delia, ever loyal to Monica and the way Monica made her pussy feel, found the answer. All on her own, just like Monica wanted. Smart enough to come up with a collusion scheme with the union to bury all complaints about abysmally low wages across many of Klepin’s offshore factories, yet dumb enough to not realize that it was ridiculously illegal. Monica just had to insulate herself from Delia, she had to ensure that she herself had plausible deniability. When it came to a head (and it would), they’d make Klepin bow to Shamurian law. Monica would disavow the practices, and would rail against the union chief and express her disappointment in Delia (a disappointment and frustration often mentioned in the papers and earnings reports). It would be a setback, but the gains of many years of lower wages wouldn’t be overturned. She’d used her extra cash well, and her claims to a portion of the market share in America, China, Europe, and India, as well as a dominant claim in Africa and South America, couldn’t be peeled back by any ramifications. Delia’s father would protect Delia from the worst of it. Monica would do her bit. I would have stopped it if I had known. I don’t disagree that she needs to be punished, but please don’t be too hard on her. She simply was in over her head. Not that Monica had a ton of guilt. The little idiot had gotten way more opportunity than she deserved. And besides, Delia would get tons of spankings in prison. Delia loved that. Delia probably wouldn’t love the diapers, but she would love the slavery that came after. She might just sell herself into it permanently after she’d gotten a taste. Tit’s out in a cage? Delia’s legs were long for a little mesh holding cage, but she’d get used to it. People did that. Prison got to them, servility and humiliation got to them. What was the name of that little lady who’d served her at the Attorney General’s manse at the last soiree? Gillica? That stupid woman who’d embezzled ten million dollars in forged company checks she wrote to herself? They wouldn’t sentence Delia to enough time to become incontinent, at least. There was much to do through the rest of the day. There was a merger call for an international team that was in charge of acquiring a smaller national distribution company in Ireland. For that meeting, different screens were set up by the servants on the table so Monica could clearly see the different people she was talking to. There were preparations from the finance team for the upcoming earnings call with the shareholders. They came in dressed impeccably and simply, as all mathematical business sorts would. And then finally, there was a smaller gathering of her marketing team. They came early and kept knocking on the door during the finance meeting-which went long-and Monica decided to order some tea from a servant and let it steep while the marketing team waited outside her office more than ten minutes after the finance team had gone. They needed to talk about a potential PR headache. A journalist in a remote shore-town of Shamuria had sniffed out the shell company owned by Klepin Inc. that controlled the sole strip of shops and businesses in the small town. They were afraid that the journalist was going to spill how Klepin basically controlled over eighty percent of available labor in the small town, and how this was used to keep salaries at a minimum. Monica wasn’t worried. Nobody in Shamuria cared about people on that side of the country. After her tea, Monica availed herself of the toilet. Her bathroom also had a big window, so she could look out at a different part of Shamuria while doing her bodily business (she was always doing business). The servants always kept it clean and stocked, and it never smelled like a bathroom in any extremes. Bathrooms can obviously smell like human refuse, but they can also smell overly of the very cleaning supplies that are meant to rid the room of human smells. Sometimes, the bleach and antiseptics were so strong they were worse than the natural smells themselves. Monica made sure to dismiss any of her office’s servants who couldn’t do anything exactly right. She always made sure that a different, salaried assistant left them a good recommendation. Servants shouldn’t have to become slaves simply for being incompetent. They couldn’t help their upbringing. Monica was generous. Her toilet was a great place to imagine the rage that her marketing VP was experiencing. Finally, after the bidet had done its work and after Monica had fixed herself and more than 30 minutes had passed since the marketing meeting was supposed to begin. Monica finally allowed her marketing team to walk in. They did so solemnly, and Monica noticed that her VP sat as far away as possible from Monica. Her marketing VP was named Regina Naples, and she was always wearing something flamboyant. Today was a nauseating suit that, between the pants and the jacket, was divided up into quadrants that each bore patterns of the different suits in a deck of cards. One breast had big red hearts, the other hand dark black spades. Diamonds and clubs started at the hem of her sport coat and continued onto her pants. She also always traveled with a personal slave. Personal slaves were permitted for manager and above employees at Klepin Inc, which was a standard perk across Shamurian businesses. Regina brought a different one every day in a seemingly endless rotation. Today’s slave was a short woman with sagging tits, older, and naked down to her diaper. She wasn’t a pretty sight to Monica, but the woman had a proud posture even despite her shame. Her chin remained stiff and raised despite the metal collar she wore. Whomever this slave had been in her past and criminal life, she’d been proud. There was always something sexy to Monica in a proud woman brought down. Monica noted to herself that Delia would have to come back for a little update. To see if Delia had finished what she’d started, of course, and to ensure that Monica could finish what she started. Monica looked at her underlings. They were pissed at her, she could tell, but they knew better than to show it. They tried to sit and bounce in the chairs to prove that the half-hour icing they’d received while Monica drank tea and used the toilet hadn’t dulled their enthusiasm. That they understood that the boss was the boss and they would work late into the evening to accommodate her whims. Some of them may have been unaware of the chill relationship between Monica and her VP of marketing, the only one among them who made no effort to hide her inconvenience. Let her stew if she’ll bring a pissy wench up in here. Monica had a rule that there were no soiled diapers in her office, but Regina would retort that the diaper hadn’t been soiled when their entourage had first arrived on Monica’s floor. Monica didn’t raise the issue; her point had been made already. Of all the executives, Regina had found out best the arrangement that Delia and the union chief had forged ‘without Monica’s knowledge.’ Regina knew better, she saw more in Delia than the up-jumped slut who flashed herself on the crystal staircase and couldn’t put an intelligent sentence together. There were whispers that Delia and Monica had a relationship, but that’s as far as most went, and most assumed that as a way to explain how ditzy Delia even had a job. Regina grasped the whole cake. She knew better, of course, than to ever raise it directly. She used phrases like we’re sitting on a volcano or our tongues are in a beehive. But she didn’t know enough to know how sensible it all was. How safe it all was. She didn’t see that if the dominos fell, they’d fall on Delia and the union chief. She didn’t see what was gained by all of the deceit, all of the dealing that buried every worker compliant in the paperwork of the dysfunctional union. All she saw was the headache it would cause from a PR sense. Regina had a brain, but it was a marketing brain only. She didn’t understand the criminality that Klepin was up against, she didn’t understand that at this level, the rules were a death-sentence. Which is an ironic narrow-mindedness for a woman dressed as she dressed. But like her simplistic villa and her artless office, whose immensities and details were all for practicality, Monica long understood that flair and bombast almost always covered for a lack of substance. Do not beware the peacock, fear the brown and gray snake. There was more to fear in Delia than there was in Regina Naples’ diamond and club pants. They spoke for a while. Regina had each of her minions explain different portions of the issue to Monica, and Monica had to tolerate it. She knew the value of letting the little people get their moment to shine, even if they provided nothing. They told her about the town, as if Monica had not picked it years ago for this specific purpose. They told her about the number of workers there, as if Monica had not found out about it on her own. They told her about the population of the town, as if Monica had not researched that while in the livery to the building this morning. They told her about the history of the shell company, and how the journalist had the information to prove that it was owned in part by Klepin Inc. Piece by piece they revealed information to Monica that Monica already knew. And credit to the journalist, he knew it all too. He’d done his work well and had managed to keep it under wraps until just last week, when the factory manager had tipped off Delia. Delia hadn’t brought it to Monica directly, Delia wasn’t that attentive, but Monica had ways of finding out what Delia knew. He knew that the company was actually owned by another man, a similar actor to Monica’s favorite corrupt union chief, something that the marketing team had not demonstrated awareness of yet. When it all came down to it, the journalist would have nothing illegal to dig up, provided he found documents long since ignited in a furnace. Monica stifled a yawn. Regina went next. She added in all the implications. How this could bring investigations, which themselves could bring yet more investigations. She stood up as she spoke, the hearts and spades distracting from the substance of what she said. There was little. Regina was doing nothing more than reminding Monica about that volcano, about that beehive that all of Klepin Inc was sitting on. Monica sat there and took it all in, and chose to remain silent and pensive, and made sure to play the good CEO to all of the little fools who believed that maybe someday, if they worked hard enough, they would sit where she sat. As they told her things she knew, Monica wondered how many of them were middle-class. None of them were poor, they’d have never made it this far for sure. But one or two might have been the affable type that could trick and charm their way up this high. Eventually their lack of connections would hurt them when they would up at the top of a tree with no branches left to climb. Some people had sympathy for those that were middle class, and wished that the good ones had a chance to make it to the upper echelons. Nobody, of course, wished that they could ever run anything. That would be too dangerous. Monica’s opinion was that, for all the Delias and Reginas and Mindys of the world, there were enough people like her that they didn’t need any influx of talent from the lower classes. Letting a few break through their iron ceiling was necessary only in the sense that it gave others enough hope to keep working hard. Like these ones, here in this room, telling her things that she already knew. Monica thought about Delia. Her panties were still moist, and she wished she’d have more time to play with her VP of Human Resources a little longer. After this meeting, Monica told herself, she’d press her button. But Delia would arrive a lot sooner, as it turned out. No, nothing went wrong. Far from it. The meeting droned on and on until finally a buzz from Monica’s phone alerted her to the potential of something interesting. Despite Regina’s thinly veiled hectoring, Monica took out her phone. CEOs could do that sort of thing. Hey Monica, though you should know. Just heard it down the wire that Mindy Topper is going to be arrested later today for insider trading. “Let the journalist go,” Monica said. “Take everything off the table,” she said. “Even his demands for access, to personally interview you?” Monica laughed. “Oh yes. Let him rattle his cage. Let him stomp his fists. Let him write something serious and let him get it out as soon as he can.” Regina looked at her minions, and shifted uncomfortably in her playing card outfit. Monica wanted to laugh at the irony. It was she who had the winning hand. “He’ll publish the article tonight, it’s already in the gun barrel!” At this, Monica did laugh. “All the better!” she said, to the surprise of everyone at the table. A few minutes later, Monica was back in her swivel chair, staring out at the massive butt plug across the skyline of downtown Stenton. She felt a surge of feeling through her body. Nothing could stop her from reaching into her blouse and stretching her fingers onto her nipple. Below, Delia did her best work. The only work she ever knew how to do correctly. It was such a shame, when prison finally claimed dull, unsuspecting Delia, that there would be too many diapers for her to pleasure the other ladies the way she did best. Her tongue was warm and active, and Delia knew just how Monica liked it. Drawn out, surprising. Long licks here, and then short frantic ones. Delia leaned forward and sucked on Monica’s clit. “Good girl!” Monica said, her voice hoarse. Oh, it was so incredibly good. There was nothing more orgasmic than victory! She hadn’t expected this to come for many years yet. What a wonderful summer surprise! This time, though, she didn’t daydream of Delia. This time her thoughts and fantasies were not directed at the brown-haired mule kissing away between her legs. Instead, Delia watched the red and blue lights filter through the streets far below toward the great big butt plug tower that Mindy owned. Or…had owned. Like Vittoria before her. Two-time Shamurian best entrepreneur indeed! Monica shouted incoherently in delight.