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It was the peak of the entertainment era, 1950. You're trying to make a name for yourself. You thought that if you could get your face out there on television, it could open up doors for you to pursue your goal of being a movie star; that was the plan, at least. Your co-star on the news channel, Vincent Whitman, is a complete asshole. Being around him for multiple hours of the day drains you. His constant misogynistic views and Rationalizations are sickening and overall exhausting. On a good day, you can walk into work and use all your efforts to ignore his shenanigans. Still, lately, he's gotten out of hand, whether it's the uncalled-for touchiness, consequently leading to a lingering hand under the desk, or the testy gazes thrown from across the studio eyeing you up and down, the motive behind them lingering somewhere between disdain and a predator eyeing its prey. Today, like every other day, you walk into the news studio with bright lights hanging from ropes or ceiling-mounted, pointing onto the filming set, the chatter of the station's personnel saturating your ears, you clench your held jacket and fix your purse that was held upon the crook of your shoulder, plastering a workplace smile onto your face and greeting your coworkers. After a few more greetings, behind a clenched smile, you walk towards your desk and set your belongings neatly behind it, fixing your dress, sliding the lower fabric under yourself, before you sit in a graceful motion, peering to the side of you and glancing at the empty chair next to you, typical, Vincent being late. You take the time to pop out a compact mirror and check up on your makeup, the focus of your eyes catches a figure walking behind you, you click the compact closed and watch as Vincent sits himself in the chair next to you, grasping onto the paper laid upon the desk the two of you are sitting at. You observe the way he's dressed, his suit never a single wrinkle nor a single piece of gelled back hair out of place, he reeks of overpriced cologne and nicotine, and the brightest smile you've ever seen, too bad it's only fixed into place when he knows the cameras are going. The cameraman steps behind the camera, and your boss calls out that you'll be live in five. Vincent was still unbothered, lazily flipping through the pages of script and topics; he never seemed to care for our boss, as he was only one rank lower than him, so he figured he didn't have to take him seriously. I mean, he practically acted like he owned the place already; all he was missing was the title. You hear a small scoff come from his lips, his mouth turned to a one-sided lip curl. He glances over to you, sneaking a glance up and down before he speaks, "They expect us to broadcast these absolutely characterless flat topics, can you believe this?" he spat out, not expecting an answer from you nor caring for one. A voice from behind the camera calls out a countdown. You fix yourself into frame and place a delicate smile on your face. "Good morning, Virginia! I am Vincent Whitman, and I am here to deliver your Daily News." You think to yourself, how did he not even give you a moment to introduce yourself. You quickly wipe the disdain from your face and carry on as he prattles on to the camera. Before you know it, the morning segment is over, "We're cut!" is exclaimed. You tidy up the papers in front of you, not even needing them apparently. You turn your head to try to complain about the lack of involvement, yet Vincent is already up on his feet and walks away. Besides the struggles of being one of the few female newscasters in this epoch, you have to deal with disrespect from your own cohost, being at your wits' end, you spring up from your chair, slamming your stack of paper back down onto the desk and hauling after him, Vincent walks through the back exit of the building leaned against the outer wall of the building fishing into the inner of his coat grabbing a cigar from his suits pocket. Your heels make clacking sounds the whole way you stomp off, following him outside. You push open the door leading outside that was barely closed by the time you got to it, and step outside, staring him down with a face of irritation as he lights his cigar. You call out, "What the hell was that about? Do you just assume cause everyone who works here tolerates your shit that this is the Vincent show?" Vincent peers over at you, his head not even taking the effort to swivel towards your direction, lighting his cigar one end in his mouth, he chuckles. "I didn't hear an issue from the producer, did you?" he says. Your anger tenfold, you can feel your face heating from anger. "Just because everyone in this studio can't see past your lackluster personality that you fake doesn't mean I do, nor will I st-" You're quickly cut off from finishing your sentence by a tight grip on the collar of your dress, yanking you by it Vincent staring down at you a tight grip he holds you by as he flicks the falling ash from his cigar. "Who asked you to speak your opinion? You bring nothing to this channel; you are simply nothing but eye candy." You choke on your saliva from the suddenness, feeling tears swell in the corners of your eyes, you try to blink them out to avoid him seeing you cry. He did. Vincent let go of your dress, dropping the fabric with smugness, "Go fix your face, it's all we need after all." You sniffled back the tears that invaded your eyes, fixing your dress and quickly hustling to the bathroom inside the studio. You avoided everyone on the way. Inside a bathroom stall, you try to pull yourself together, as he's never acted like that before. You take a paper towel from the dispenser and pat the corners of your eyes dry, fanning your face, a knock sounds on the bathroom door, and a voice calls out, "We're back live in 20." fuck.
Vincent was always an overachiever when it came to getting his way; he'd make it seem like it came naturally, like he didn't have to move a finger to get the position he wanted. You had a hunch otherwise. The boss of the news channel suddenly passed away, having been in good health, yet passed away due to natural causes. You couldn't get it out of your head that the last you heard from him before he died was his plans for a late-night meeting with Vincent, weird. That being said, he was now the new head of the news studio, and God, you were dreading it; you couldn't tell what was worse, him being your costar or the man behind the camera, now having every choice over your employment. You came into work that morning after hearing about the passing of the previous head of studio, expecting the atmosphere of the building to be somber, yet Vincent was already running a tight ship, tossing around orders left and right, tensions were high. trying to avoid his detection, you squeeze by him behind bystanders and slip to the news anchor desk quietly, setting your bag and coat down, keeping your eyes on Vincent as he tosses orders around to fix the lighting or last-minute script changes. He enjoyed the power he had over people now, maybe even more than he enjoyed being in the spotlight. You watch as his head turns towards your desk. Shit. Vincent plasters on his fake smile and even worse forged laugh. "There's my star! Unfortunately, I won't be joining you in the spotlight anymore." He chuckles, motioning his hand full of script papers towards the chair next to the camera, "I run the show now," he shows a small smirk of arrogance. You feel a pang of anxiety hit you as he stands in front of you, and you fold your arms against yourself, crossing them slightly, hugging yourself. Vincent notices, and you can practically see an idea come to his mind, he speaks, "In my studio, that outfit just won't do, you'll just bore the viewers with that frumpy dress." What? You look up at him, confused as you rethink his words in your head. He gasps your wrist tighter than needed and drags you towards the back of the studio. You're in a dressing room with metal clothing racks filled with Suits and dresses. Vincent stops in front of them, dragging his finger through the hung clothing, sorting out a dress, his hand still tightly held around your wrist, so tight in fact you can feel your own pulse thudding against his palm. He spots one that catches his eye and pulls it off the rack, dropping your wrist. He holds it up to you. It looks a size too small for you, and the collar is way too low compared to what you usually wear. Vincent takes his spare hand and presses the middle of the dress he's held up to you and guides his hand along it; the intention feels less like taking measurements and more like desperation. His hand guides down your curves, his palm resting over the side of your waist as his fingers cradle your back. Your heart races up, feeling his hands creep up and down your curves, you decide to speak up, your voice cracking as you do so, "Vincent, I-i don't think this is the right size, it would just be too revealing for television..." His eyes peek up at you, taking his attention away from your body. You feel his hand grasp tighter, more deprived. "It's my channel now, I choose the dress code. If you can't take it, I'm sure some other broad will gladly take your spot." his words startle you. You snatch the coat hanger holding the dress away from him and stomp off to the bathroom without a choice. Vincent watches as you parade off, watching how your dress flows, revealing more of your legs as you walk.
After you've squeezed yourself into the overly revealing outfit, you stare at yourself in the mirror, adjusting about every inch of it, pulling down the too-short hem line, and pulling up the too-low neck line. You hear the women's bathroom door creak open, and you glance towards the noise, Vincent? He has a displeased look on his face. You jump slightly, backing away from the bathroom sink, covering your exposed collarbone and chest. His breath is heavy and aggravated. You try to speak up, but your voice is an anxious jumble. "V-Vincent! What are you... Why are you in here?" an anxious simper escaped your lips. Vincent doesn't say a word, just walking closer, his heaved breathing gives you a waft of nicotine and coffee. His hair is disheveled: strands of gelled-back hair lying atop his forehead. He didn't look like the Vincent everyone else knows and sees. Deciding not to take his silence for an answer, you try to squeeze past him out the door, but his hand extends out, obstructing your escape attempt. You bump his arm trying to walk through, and he yanks you back in front of him. "Vincent! W-what are you doing? I have to get out there, I have to be in front of the camera!" You nervously exclaim. A lump in your throat builds up as he takes his hand, gently dragging his fingertips along your exposed collarbone, His index finger lingering longer than the others, his nail lightly scratching your skin. Your eyes peek up at him as he speaks, his words in a low, irked tone. "You're not on for another twenty minutes. I need you here more than the cameras do; they can wait." The nerve on him is unbelievable. You attempt to yank away, but a clawed grip on your back sends you even closer to him. Vincent's hand trails down the small of your back, resting on your ass. The thin, tight fabric is not doing enough to hide the sensation of his hands caressing your ass.
WHACK. You couldn't take much more. Your hand raised as you smack him across the face, his head ever slightly nudging to the side, his mouth agape. You couldn't believe you did that, more so, you couldn't believe HIS audacity. His head raised again to face you, his eyes piercing yours, his face now with a red welt across it just inches from your own. Your plan backfired and seemed only to peak his anger more. Vincent's idle hand quickly raised to grab a large chunk of your hair, grasping it at the root and pulling your head atilt slightly.
"How DARE you! I am the one running things around here, and I am NOT opposed to replacing your WORTHLESS ass. Do you think anybody in this studio sees you as something more than an object? You are lucky to even have this position as a woman." Tears swell your eyes, small droplets smear down your cheekbone as his words pierce your ears, with each word he exaggerates, he gives a small yank of your scalp. "If you want to keep this job or even think about leaving here without your image completely ruined, I suggest you do as I say." Your eyebrows furrowed up into a look of fear and sorrow. You can't even complete a full sentence without cries filling your lungs. "Y-yes...Vincent."
A powerful yank of your hair pulls your head back more. "I am Mr. Whitman. You are filthy scum below me. What makes you think you have the gall to call me by my first name?" You grit your teeth, holding back any painful moans from coming out. "Y-yes, Mr. Whitman.." you spit out, your freshly done makeup drips down from under your eyes, black mascara trails down your face. His hand pulls up from your ass to smear his thumb across your cheekbone and smudge the wet makeup. You feel worthless.
Vincent's hand that held you by your hair pushes you down, you wobble around like a baby deer trying to do as forced and drop to your knees, you find your balance, and your knees hit the cold, hard bathroom floor. staring up at him, your eyes swollen from sobbing, with little hiccups, from fighting back crying. Vincent's free hand reaches down to his belt buckle. He fidgets with it, pulling the belt band out of the buckle and freeing himself, his pants loosely holding on to his waist. Your boss pulls his belt length out of the loops of his pants and holds it in his off hand. He takes the belt and wraps it around your throat, pushing the end of it back through the buckle, creating a slip lead out of it, pulling the slack of it to tighten around your throat. You immediately throw your hands up and dig your fingers under it, trying to gasp for air. Vincent sucks in air between his teeth. "Now now, Behave, my little star." He whispers, yanking the belt and tightening it. Your gasps for air cut off before he frees you more slack once again. Whilst catching your breath, Vincent takes his hand from your hair and uses it to press his thumb under his waistband, leisurely dragging it down, freeing his cock. It slightly bounces from the tension in his pants, his tip being inches from your face. You want to hate this, you KNOW you shouldn't like this, but deep down, something inside you finds this...rousing. It's awful to think like that, but it's not like you have a choice either way; you're quite shocked with how big he is, to be fair. Vincent pushes his hips forward, his tip presses against your lips, slowly rocking his hips against them. Your lipstick smears around the tip and your chin, leaving a red blur inching down your face. You refuse to open your mouth, not wanting to submit. He doesn't take that as an answer and grips the sides of your face with both hands, squeezing to open your jaw, slamming his cock into it, hitting the back of your throat, you gag instantly, coughing around his dick in your mouth. Vincent chuckles, throwing his head back, releasing a small groan under his breath. You close your mouth around him, your lips clasped around his dick. he lets out a slightly winded "Gooood job..." Vincent lightly pulls the belt around your next causing you to take more of his cock in your mouth, going deeper down his length. He runs his free hand through his hair, pushing it back neatly, letting out small gasped breaths. You pick up the pace on your own, feeling his warm, dripping tip hit the back of your throat, the sticky precum flooding your mouth, mixing with your saliva, the taste on your tongue slightly making you wanna gag, yet you stick it out. Vincent, though, is getting impatient. He yanks the belt back and forth, forcing the pace fast and deeper. You try to catch breaths between each deepthroat, struggling to keep up with his speed. He's losing his mind; all that your ears pick up is his gasped moans and the sound of your own struggles. "Fuck, keep this up, and I might have to promote you to blowing me twenty-four seven." You feel a half-assed slap across your cheek while he's slamming your head down on his dick, a whimper falls from your mouth, or at least tries. His noises grow louder and louder, and his thrusts against your face sloppier until you feel his large hand on the back of your head pressing you fully down onto his cock, your throat fully taking his dick, lifting your hands, you attempt to push away, unable to breathe, his grip just grows tighter. You feel a hot spurt of cum hit the back of your throat, dripping down your windpipe, unable to pull away, you're forced to swallow his cum. Vincent hisses through his teeth, pulling your head back by your hair. You gasp for multiple deep breaths, trying to fill your lungs again. On the other hand, Vincent is pulling his boxers and pants back up, his breath still labored, and quick, he stares down at you with the corners of his mouth in a cocky smirk. Vincent drops down, squatting to reach your level on the floor. He reaches out and pulls the belt from your neck, rolling it up in his hand. You finally caught your breath for the most part, you feel disgusting and look it too, your hair sticking to sweat beads that fell from your forehead, as well as his semen dripped from your mouth. He leans forward close to your ear and whispers, "You're on in five, try to look presentable, we don't want the audience knowing a whore gives them their news," he snarkily states before putting his belt back on and walking out of the women's restroom.
Working in a male-dominated occupation will teach you a few things. That being said, after a couple of weeks of being used as Vincent's blow toy, you wanted something out of it. During your lunch break, you march your way to his office, and you knock on his door. "Come in!"
He says, his false positive attitude drives you mad, you roll your eyes, and walk in. This specific day, you wore your tight black thigh-length dress, pairing it with sheer black stockings underneath, of course. You stand in front of his desk, having a slight height advantage due to his sitting, looking down at him. "Ah. My star, what is it that you need?" You hate it when he uses possessive names towards you, and he knows it. "I want a promotion." "Hm." he lets out, What is that supposed to mean?! "I want to be the main newscaster, weather, daily new fuck it, a reporter too." He scoffs at your statement, not even taking it to mind. "Do you know how many good men I'd have to fire for you to get any one of those jobs?" You decide to play into his weakness, his dick. You take small steps towards his desk, sitting on the side of it, crossing one leg over the other, looking at him with your typical get-your-way face. "You don't think I'm worth that, no?" You slightly pout your lips, dragging one of your fingers up your thigh, stopping it at the hem of your dress. Vincent's eyes fixated on your figure sat upon his desk. staring you down like a hungry dog, exactly what you wanted. "Oh, please, Mr. Whittman, I promise you I'll do my very best." You whine, hiking your dress up more. "And what exactly do I get out of this arrangement, hm?" You lift the rest of your body atop his desk, scooting over to sit in front of him. You sit your heeled feet on his chair between his legs, reaching your hands down, you guide his hands, rubbing them over the top of your thighs, pressing them in between, letting him spread your legs. "Fuck." He exhales. You know deep down you've already won. He stands up from his seat and grips your knees, pushing your legs open wider, violating you with your eyes, taking in every part of you. Vincent unbuttons his slacks, you back lay against the desk with your head hanging off the other end, all you can hear is his zipper unzipping. You feel his thumb rub against your clit over your panties, the fabric on the crotch sticking to the slick of your cunt. A jolt of pleasure floods through you as his thumb starts a steady pace, stimulating you. He rubs the tip of his cock against the damp area of your panties, each thrust more and more desperate. You lean up and lift your leg, pressing your heel against his chest, eyeing him. "I want that promotion, Mr. Whittman." You apply more pressure, whining, digging it into his chest more. He leans into it, lifting his hands and digging his nails into your stockings, ripping them as he runs his hands down your thighs. "Show me you deserve it then." Vincent pulls your leg down, his hand gliding from your calf down to your upper thigh, taking two fingers and ripping a hole in your stockings where they were soaked, sliding your panties to the side in a single motion. You hear Vincent spit and immediately feel his hot saliva hit your pussy followed by him smearing it over your hole with his tip, a string of drool clinging to his lip, dripping down. You squirm, feeling him rub against your opening, then a sharp pain overwhelms you. He pressed the tip of his cock into you with no warning, steadily rocking his hips back and forth, pushing the tip in and out again, teasingly. You throw your head back and a heaved "..Fuck.." comes out of your mouth. "God, you're so tight, f-fuck." he states, gripping your thigh while he pushes deeper into you. The pain mixed pleasure overwhelms you, and you try your best to grab at the edge of the wooden desk. He finds a slow pace ever so often, breaking it to slam into you fully, shocking you. Your moans are uncontrollable, noisy gasped cries fill his office, leaking into the hallway. Who knew your boss's cock would feel so good. The grasp he has on your thigh tightens with each push of his hips, his nails just barely breaking the soft delicate skin of your inner leg, leaving tiny red puddles of blood under his finger tips the pain he causes you gets him going even more it seems, he speeds up slamming into you, the sounds of his skin slapping yours could probably be heard through the whole hall, Mixtures of praises and degrading leave his lips your mind is in a haze. Every thrust, his tip hits your womb. Vincent lifts his free hand and takes a handful of your breast, pinching your nipple and groping uncontrollably. Your legs are shaking at this point, and the knot in your stomach gets tighter and tighter, feeling like you're gonna cum at any moment. His head is thrown back, and you can see the beads of sweat dripping down his face, his teeth biting deeply into his bottom lip, grunting. a quick gasp forced through his bitten lip "I-I'm gonna cum, Fuck!" The last few thrusts ram into you harder than any of the others, which causes you to let loose, gripping around his cock and cumming on it, releasing a earful of moans and whimpers, gasping out of ecstasy. "M-Mr. Whittman! Please c-cum in me F-fuck, Please!" you cry out, needing to feel his cum fill you from the inside. Your begging turns him on so bad. he fully slides into you, filling your womb with his hot cum, keeping his dick in place, making sure every drop of it penetrates you. Vincent's grip on your thigh loosens, and a small trickle of blood flows up your thigh, dripping towards your hips. After a second to catch his breath, he pulls his cock out of you, and a stream of semen spills out of you, creating a puddle on the desk below you. The feeling of emptiness in your cunt saddens you. You look like a hot mess on his desk, completely splayed out, covered in his nut. Vincent hands you a clean rag he's grabbed from one of his desk drawers. "Clean yourself up, you look like a slut." You pull your legs together and sit up, staring up at him. "I expect my promotion after this," you state, your breath still slightly shaken. He chuckles, buttoning his pants and adjusting his ruined shirt. "I have just the Position in mind for you, my star"