SOURCE: https://mcstories.com/Puddles/index.html

“I’m very protected,” Mary said. “I had to make the gloves myself. Other girls already bought all the gore-tex.”

Her nervous system quivered, aroused. Her body bristled with nerve endings. New ones had sprouted in dense pack along her erogenous zones, and old ones were tensed, rejuvenated. Too much. She had new erogenous zones, her entire body was erogenous. The virus had doubled, and doubled, and doubled the electric fibers all throughout, and given her heavy glands full of dopamine, oxytocin, and other, new exciting chemicals. A heavy wind on her lips could make her...

Mary laughed, nervously.

Mr. Widener tapped a pencil on the desk. “I like the cape,” he said.

“Ah, yeah,” Mary said. “It’s terrycloth. It’s a bathrobe. You know. I had to protect the back of my neck from... uh... contact. I’m one purple nurple or wet willy away from being a much less special employee. To the organization.”

Mr. Widener raised an eyebrow. Mary had to concede that he was being very good. Even the male gaze excited red goosebumps where it lingered. Long stares at her boobs, even behind their scratchy, pleasurable layers, could make her...

But he was being very polite about her condition.

And what a mess she was. Mary wore loose underpants, a silk chemise, and a pair of black nylons. Even her feet were... fun... with her condition, so she’d opted for running shoes. Jeans were just about tolerable if they were stiff, so it was like she was wearing two tubes. On top she’d opted for two sweaters, and a fuzzy wool cap with, very very important, ear protectors. Ears were already sensitive. The way she was now, with quadruple the senses, and a hair-trigger limbic season, could make her...

...cum... there, she’d thought it, and it hadn’t happened.

...cum a lot. Slosh around with endorphins, nerves spasming, mind lighting up then turning off with far more sensation than was good for her...

“We’re still glad to have you,” Mr. Widener said. “You’re our best programmer, and I. We. The company. Agree wholeheartedly that the mental....”

He chewed on the right word.

“Degradation....”

It was the right word.

“...of girls. women. who, ah, are... overstimulated.... is regrettable. And the staff has been instructed accordingly. You’re fine with your home arrangements?”

“Yes. Thank you! Thank you,” Mary blurted out. She felt an urge to rub her lips, and fought it off. This time. HIs eyes prickled wherever they landed. Her nipples were always hard now. Two pleasurable buds. The undersides of her breasts felt wonderful. So did the tops. She wanted to fondle herself, and be fondled. “Always appreciate feeling appreciated. I try to be a plus employee.”

Plus-sized, now. As an afterthought the virus had dropped more tits and ass on her. More body to cum in. She’d spent all weekend learning how not to touch herself. There were tips and strategies shared online, but it was clear from every FAQ that this would be an epic struggle. It was easy to cum while brushing teeth, it was easy to cum in the shower, it was very, very easy to cum on the toilet.

And so tempting. So FUN.

SO much fun had been squeezed into her formerly petite body. So much fun! She’d added twenty-five pounds, and while lots of it was tits and ass, so much had to be innervating nerve endings. Her clit popped out of her clit like a cherry. Waves of pounding, brain-melting pleasure awaited her. She was suspended over the ocean. Just scooching her thighs together and twisting would...

“Mary. Mary?”

“Yes! Mr. WIdener!” Mary said. She gave him a bright, cheery smile. She was not in the ocean. She was dry.

She wasn’t just a moaning animal. So many girls were already just... rutting. She was special. She knew she was.

“Could you sign this waiver? Girls have been known to... you know. Unpleasantness.”

Cum themselves loopy in the lobby? Frig themselves into contented, simple states? The background noise of the world now was a contented purr, punctuated with regular moans. Wherever she was, a girl was cumming her brains out, somewhere nearby. Really cumming her brains out. It had to feel so good...

“Oh. Yes,” Mary said. She reached out, distracted.

Their fingertips met. All five fingertips. A very, very sensitive area, fingertips.

“Hnnnhhhh,” Mary whined, immediately. Signals arced from her hands, up through her arms, and into her already bulked up brain. The gloves did nothing. It should’ve been a tiny addition to the pulse of the many throbbing parts of her body, her soaking wet, pleasure-addled body. But a man had touched her, a man, and with her hypothalamus already steaming, soaked in natural opioids, she was turned into an animal right away. Going through the animal motions.

It was time for her pleasure reward for whatever it was she had done.

Her body started to ripple and jerk. Pleasure coursed through new passages. She’d been remade to feel the most delicious contentment.

“Ernnnhhhh,” the best programmer on the staff said. “Enhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” She drooled in front of her boss.

“Mary?” Mr. Widener said. He had no reason not to stare, especially as she slid forward, legs opening wide. He watched her cum.

When the virus arrived Mary had first thought—this will be like a bad toothache. Or a migraine, perhaps. It would be like pain. Battering, assaulting, but ultimately a feeling that could be held apart from her. Captured by her conscious self. An unpleasantness that, as a person, she could fight against. How silly she had been, thinking pleasure was anything like pain. Pain was just a warning system.

Pleasure was everything.

“Unnnh. Unnnnnh,” Mary said, shaking. She hadn’t thought about anything for some time, and it would be awhile before she turned back on. She drooled a lot. Her hips bucked back and forth. Every part of her body chorused. The hormone count in her bloodstream was alarming. It was practically pink, her blood, and an MRI machine, tuned to her head, would see sections blinking under the strain. It was the best moment of her life, and there were so many moments in a second. Even more in a minute.

Almost as an afterthought her legs jerked together, she spasmed, and a hot wet spurt shot out of her. Mary squirted and squealed, a lot. The fluid leaked out and collected underneath her, warm against her skin.

Mr. Widener watched it soak the cushion.

Eventually, since nothing else was happening, Mary turned back on. She felt light-headed, and giggly, and stupid. Orgasms like that were—tough. Tough on girls.

“Sorry about the fingertips,” Mr. Widener said.

“Yeahhhhhhh—ummmmmmmm—” Mary tried to sit up. She smiled at him, her eyes glassy. It was awhile before she realized she’d essentially pissed herself in his office. She was soaked. It was just starting to cool. It was just alarming that she had to find concern for the situation, for her humiliation, from spare bits of her mind around the periphery. She was glowing. Glowing so bright.

“I squirted,” Mary said, stupidly.

“It’s just a cushion,” Mr. Widener said. “Mary, never fear, you are a special part of the organization. Can you stand up?”

* * *
He hadn’t replaced the cushion. It was stained. Not a lot stained, but there was a big dark patch where she’d cum all over it. Soaked it in her juices.

Mary sat down. Very slowly. She’d gotten good at sitting down, which put a lot of warm, wet pressure on her ever-ready clit and her usually-throbbing asshole. Sitting down too quickly would lead to a short, sharp orgasm, along with her always-embarrassing expression of cunt juices.

“I’m having some issues with the staff, sir,” Mary said. “They’re. Um. Using me. It’s bad for the organization.”

“Well. I’m disappointed to hear that. Although you look...” Mr. Widener studied her. This time she had bare skin to admire. “...composed. Certainly on a comparative basis with other women.”

“You mean, I don’t have cum in my hair?” Mary said. “I’m not screeching happiness in your face? Yes, thank you. I try.”

She was trying so hard.

The full-concealment plan had failed. She’d driven home, on a hot day, and her car’s AC had failed. Naturally she’d drenched herself in sweat, completely wrapped up in sweaters and jeans. The prickle of moisture and the rivulets finding their way down her thighs, past her tits, had set off a chain reaction of very intense orgasms. She’d barely gotten to the side of the road. And when she’d come to, wrecked and giggling, Mary was pretty sure she’d forgotten High School Geometry, as well as the years 2012-2015 in pop culture. Her car seat was still drenched.

So she was dressed—normally. Sort of. The skirt was bright white. It sort of hid the wetness. The blouse was armless, and short, and she wasn’t wearing a bra. With pasties over her eager nipples, and if the AC was set to 64, Mary could just about concentrate on her assignments. So long as they didn’t involve the area of a circle, or sine, cosine, or tangents.

“I don’t blame them. The status of girls... that is... women... it is certainly plummeting. I know it has become socially acceptable to tickle, and tease, and... ummm... fondle. Breasts and assholes. Or whatever.”

Mr. Widener’s eyes wandered to her tits. They were much bigger than they used to be. When she typed, Mary had to cantilever her arms around their heft. Her productivity was declining markedly. “But! I still feel that my value to this company is greater as a programmer than as,” Mary fidgeted, which was a mistake. A gentle rocking pressure on her butt was the last thing she needed. It sent distracting sparks through her. “You know. One of the office toys. You already have a lot of toys. You only have one Mary.”

“True,” Mr. Widener conceded. “Lots of toys.”

It had been disheartening, watching her fellow female employees be reduced to the status of jiggle toys. Sensory play objects that squealed and made fun noises when stroked or rubbed. Cassandra in Finance, who had also tried the fully-encased route, and now lived underneath men’s desks. She’d blow anyone if they’d rub her feet over her while they worked. Petra who wore nearly nothing, dental floss bikinis, and lived for healthy slaps on the rear. Terri whose shrieks livened up the work day. She was two floors away, and Mary could still hear her.

But not her. So far. She was special, and became more special every day. She could still write, if she didn’t squeeze the pen too tight.

“And you’re holding up alright?” Mr. Widener said. Mary was well-aware that she was getting dimmer with each unrestrained, brain-bouncing cum session. She had to strain to think—what was the right response? A lie, or the truth?

The truth was, of course she was not holding up alright.

Pleasure was a drug, and she wanted it. She wanted it so badly. Every surface in her apartment was a temptation, and the corners on the furniture especially so. Her body ached to be rubbed against the kitchen table. She’d thrown her pillows out the window, to avoid the temptation, but not before reducing one to a sweaty, squirty mass of feathers. It had felt so indescribably good, to mindlessly hump herself against the wadded up cotton. The noises she’d made had rubbed her throat sore.

And that was just furniture. The desire to be held, stroked, fondled, felt, by anyone male, was all-consuming. A single hand down the length of her thigh would, so obviously, be the greatest moment of her life. It was so, so hard to think of anything but men. Men holding her down and penetrating her. Hell, men holding her hand. A single kiss on her oversensitized lips. She was addicted to her own body.

“I can even take a bath if I get the temperature just right,” Mary told him, encouraging. That was a lie. She’d given in on Saturday, abandoned herself to a shower. Even when the water turned icy she’d been a moaning wreck, the droplets igniting each nerve. At least her squirt had gone down the drain. Her entire apartment was getting soggy. She herself was soggy with dopamine, all the time.

Mary twirled her hair and felt an urge to titter. It wasn’t lost on her that what was getting stripped away was the educated professional, and what was left was the giggling, soft, feminine girl. She was becoming a girl who squirted when she came, and who came a lot, and that type of girl wasn’t reading Sally Rooney. She wasn’t reading at all.

It was happening so fast, becoming someone else. Mary had tried very hard to hold on to who she was. She’d tried to read My Brilliant Friend, and the words had echoed in an empty space that was waiting for its next chemical payload. Forcing the printed characters through her eyes, into her soft head, and then into some sort of meaning, and enjoying it, was an unbearable effort. WIth just a squeeze of her own tits, or even yanking on her own nipples, she could enjoy a crashing wave of warm pleasure. Complicated female relationships didn’t have a chance. Now, if two girls hugged, they’d both be moaning and quivering in each other’s embrace.

It wasn’t just that. She ached for male attention, male approval, male fingertips on parts of her. They were crack poured into strong bodies with strong arms. Mary was fighting a losing battle against makeup, against the desire to show skin, whatever might get hungry masculine energy stroking her inner thighs. She’d watched a movie where Ed Harris just gazed, commanding, at the viewer, and felt a welcome rhythm pulse through her. She’d squirted on her exhausted couch. She hadn’t even touched herself.

Her attention had wandered off, again. Mary couldn’t even shake herself back to reality. It had all come to a head the previous night. She’d gotten close to climax by slurping plain spaghetti, feeling it wriggle on her tongue. She’d worn very short athletic shorts, and painted her nails a dusky pink, and watched a long tutorial on how to get smoky eyes. And then she’d rubbed her clit on the edge of her coffee table.

“What... were we talking about?” Mary said. Her voice slurred. At least she wasn’t drooling. Better than most. She was special, she commanded herself to be.

“Nothing. You mentioned a bath and then trailed off,” Mr. Widener said. His brightest programmer had no idea her legs had fallen open, and she was wearing yellow panties. Dark yellow, since they were so soaked.

“Men!” Mary said. She snapped her finger, and flinched. Her hand was a sparkling fountain of fun. Mary stuck it under her butt. “It isn’t all of them. But—Perry and Terrence. They’ve been... not accommodating.”

“Touching you?”

If only. Neither had touched her. Mary was pretty sure they were playing a game. Perry had had a conversation with her, and then blown through pursed lips across her face, her eyes, her cheeks. It had made Mary pant like a dog, right in front of him. He’d watched her stand there, glassy-eyed, reduced to shivering heat, and then he’d puffed right on her lips. That had done it. Mary had sat down on the floor and squirted on the office carpet.

“Not... exactly,” Mary said.

Terrence had been the hardest one.

His version was being a perfect gentleman, with the exception of his intense, powerful eyes. He held open doors for her. He ordered in lunch for her. His favorite move was to offer her his chair, warmed up by his big, strong body, perfumed by his scent. Every time she sat in his chair she ended up cumming in it, adding Mary squirt to the mix.

“He’s been... too nice? Is that a thing? I don’t... ummmm....” Mary added a few more giggles. She hoped her makeup looked nice. She’d been experimenting with blush, tickling it over her cheeks until the usual cummy consequences. “Y’know?” she concluded. Terrence liked to just talk to her, eyes fixed, and watch her conversational ability gradually devolve into giggles, umms, and, eventually, moans. He asked her opinion on his tie. “He got me a present!”

“A present, huh?” Mr. Widener said.

How could she explain this, with her boobs feeling so nice? Terrence had gotten her a beautifully wrapped present, with a full golden bow. Mary had cum trying to open it, driving herself on as her fingertips sang with delight, ripping into the wrapping even as her thighs clenched together. Inside was a Stanley water bottle. He liked her hydrated. In his eyes was a notched count of each time she’d shook, and cried out, and squirted, at his direction. It made her cum that he was having so much fun with her.

“It was... I mean, yes, he’s a sweetie, but... Mr. Widener... I’m kind of forgetting stuff. I keep forgetting my passwords. I think I forgot javascript last night. I want to be... an important asset...”

“Yes, you said that,” Mr. Widener said. He leaned back in his chair. “Mary, perhaps you should simply go home.”

“I’m a programmer!” Mary protested. “I’m your BEST programmer!”

“And yet, most of your work in the past week was making the chairs soggy.”

“That’s—that’s Terrence and Perry. They pick new chairs. I think they’re competing to make me... you know... squirt. And it’s bad for my... uh.... you know? The thing? Ends with a Q?”

“IQ,” Mr. Widener said.

“That!” Mary said. She giggled again, helplessly. It all felt so good. Cancelling her HBO account, because it was too smart of TV, felt good. Cutting her hems short, with ragged cuts, felt good. Pleasure was not pain. She wanted more pleasure, all the time. No, she wanted to be special, right? The girl who fought back, who resisted all the pillows and table edges and the warm, welcoming men... “Mr. Widener, I’m trying sooooo hard, I’m fighting, I’m reading books... I mean, I own a bunch of them, that counts for something...”

“Does it? Mary, are you really fighting? I can see your pussy right now. Can you close your legs?”

Her legs were open? Mary looked down. Her traitorous thighs weren’t cooperating. “Um. It’s better if I don’t? I’ll probably cum if I close them. They rub together. Maybe you can just, not look at my pussy?”

“Mmm. Alright,” Mr. Widener said. He decided not to.

“Lets try a little test. Mary. I’m sure you can pass this one. Easy, for a girl like you.”

He deliberately put his elbow on the table, with his hand up. He extended his middle finger at her.

She could have such fun with that middle finger.

If she stood on the desk, and squatted, she could jam it inside of her cunt. That would be so delightful, and if the consequence was falling forward, perhaps breaking something, so be it. She could bend over and maybe, if the leverage was right, get it up her slit. At least into her butthole, which would be just fine. She and her asshole were on very good terms, these days. And she could get on the chair and fall on it, make him catch her, and wherever he touched her would be just fine...

“I’m not gonna,” Mary said, adamant. This was her boss, not a... not a tempting toy to play with. She was more than the endless crescendo of pleasure. She was an addict, but every addiction could be broken. It took willpower, and determination, and all sorts of qualities a silly girl like her did not have. She ached for his touch. It was that much more delicious that it was her boss. “I’m not gonna. No. Mr. Widener, there’s no need to tempt me. Go get Jenny or one of your other sluts to... stick it... in their cunny...”

Her mouth watered. This was so hard, and his finger looked so firm. The rationalization took hold of her, and she was still smart enough to know, dully resigned, that she was doing it. Just sucking on the wonderful digit wouldn’t be so bad. It wasn’t that big of a deal, to suck it. It was practically a kiss. It was first base.

Mary tried to keep her lips shut. She’d done them up with wine-dark lipstick. It was no use. They parted, and she slid the salty finger inside her mouth. Lightning bolts struck. It was her first time touching a man, since she’d gotten this particular virus. It was like being stroked by god.

Mr. Widener yelped. She’d bit him. But cutely—it was so adorable how little control she had, over her own body. It was pleasure-seeking, and the ditzy, silly girl in nominal charge didn’t have a whole lot of say. Mary deepthroated the finger by way of apology, and because it felt really good. This deep his fingers were up against her lips, and her lips were fourth on the erogenous zone list. She could bring herself off sucking on a straw, and had.

For a moment, Mary wondered if—maybe she WAS still smart, but in a different way. All her considerable powers, her sterling GPA, her SAT scores, were turned to the acquisition of pleasure. Getting it, getting more of it, filling her with it until it squirted out. But no, that couldn’t be right. She’d forgotten the concept of area codes after bucking her needy cunt against the coffee table. And this orgasm, too, was going to be a wild one. She really needed to write down her middle name, because it was at severe risk. Serotonin needed that area to wash around in.

Mary sucked and came. It was a stunning one. Most of her turned off, and it was hard to even enjoy, since she’d been turned into a gaping, overwrought animal. She made a bunch of sounds, and her lips slid off the finger with a loud popping noise, furious at losing their male pacifier. By luck and reflex she fell backwards onto the chair, still damp, and went through the motions of radiating and overwhelming joy. She hadn’t even had time to use her hands to cup her tits, or grab her pussy, or anything. She’d gotten barely a half-dozen licks in. It was another greatest moment of her life.

She squirted all over the wet cushion.

“We need a drying rack,” Mr. Widener said. He looked at his wet finger, and then wiped it off on his pants.

* * *
“Um, Mr. Widener! Mr. Widener, sirrrrrrrr!”

Mary was desperate, lately, for some sign that she was still... more. Still special, in the eyes of the company, or Mr. Widener, or really anyone at all. That she wasn’t just one of the many, many big-boobed pleasure-seeking sluts that were around for the enjoyment of the men.

There weren’t that many signs of it, and definitely none in the mirror. The best sign she was special was her bikini bottom, which Terrence and Perry had gotten for her. There was very little room on the tiny scrap of fabric covering her ass, but they’d written in, with a waterproof pen, CAREFUL! I SQUIRT! It was a prized possession. No one else had special briefs.

She’d given up on the concealing outfits, or really any attempt to put a gloss of normalcy on her big-boobed, big-hipped, ultra-slutty body. Mary had forgotten about a lot of stuff, including office dress codes. She wore her bikini bottom, which was as-usual somewhere in between getting wet and drying out. On top, like many girls, she wore a wool sweater cut up and carved into a sort of itchy and scratchy bikini top. It was as gnarled and whorled as old wool could be, and hundreds of sheep fibers rubbed constantly on her nipples, her tits, and around them. It was an incredible sensation, a modern type of mortification, and it alone left her in a state of foggy arousal. It also did a good job showing off her boobs. The only downside was they were rough and reddened from the fabric, but it was a small price.

That was nearly it for clothes. Sometimes Mary wore wool socks, but she’d opted instead for silky knee-highs and blue tennis shoes, to leave her clear-headed for her important business meeting.

“Girl, what is it?” she cringed. Some remnant of her pride kept her back straight, despite the powerful radiation of male disapproval. Of course—she’d interrupted his blowjob from Cassandra. She should’ve realized.

“I’ll wait,” she said, meekly, and fought off the urge to join in. Or play with herself while watching. It would not help her case to be a Special Girl if she was just another rub-me-sir slut. Mary even managed to shut her legs, by manually shutting her thighs together. The sensation made her quiver, but when the lightbulb in her head always shone super-bright, small changes in incandescence were easy to ignore.

Mr. Widener sighed and did something with his hand beneath the table. Probably shoved Cassandra’s head to the base of his dick, since Mary could hear pleased choking noises. True man that he was, Mr. Widener had no trouble unloading as he pleased. There was a muffled whump that was, very likely, her semi-conscious happy body hitting the carpet. No—wait—her name wasn’t Cassandra, anymore. She’d been renamed Sucky by the team.

“Mary.”

“What’s left!” Mary said. “Thank you for hurrying your orgasm, sir.”

Mr. Widener waved a hand in a way that meant, there were many orgasms.

“Mary, I always have time for you. I think about you quite a bit. We all do.”

“I’m super sorry about that, sir!” Mary said. “I’ve been carrying a towel around!” She assumed he meant—he’d sat down in one of her many wet patches. The boys made a point of moving her around from chair to chair, and also keeping her well hydrated. They varied what they did to her—sometimes it was a fullbore spit roast with two heavy cocks in her holes. Sometimes—with Perry especially—it was seeing how little it took to make her moan. Blowing on her forearm. Winking lasciviously. It didn’t take very much at all.

“No, no, not—that. Well, yes, that. You are always around us,” Mr. Widener said. This wave of his hand indicated the subtle perfume of Mary that permeated the building. Just about every room. There were puddles from her work on the roof, gently drying in the sun. “No, your struggle was very—heartwarming? No. Inspiring? I suppose not. Whatever it was, you lasted about as long as any girl. You earned a meeting, at least.”

“I haven’t given up, sir,” Mary said. She stuck her thumb in her mouth when she wasn’t talking. It was fun to suck on. “I still know a language. I know every letter in English. You can use them to write words and even sentences.”

“That is true,” Mr. Widener agreed.

“And I’m doing new things. I’m learning to sew. It feels really good. And, um, I’ve gotten really good at doing laundry. You know why. So I’m learning.”

“Admirable,” Mr. Widener said. His under-desk Sucky suck slut began to stir. He stroked her hair.

“So... I think I earned a... is it called... a promotion?” Mary said. “Or at least, a special job? Please? Sir? I think I’m pretty... special?”

Anything that made her... more. There had to be something. And if she couldn’t think of it, a man probably could.

It was something she’d held on to throughout her ongoing devolution, her inevitable descent into one of so many silly super sluts. She was an animal, yes. She was a girl animal, who responded to pleasurable stimuli like animals did, who was not immune to the electrical stimulus in her head, especially when it was left on indefinitely.

The girls—friends of hers—they were all similar animals in the end, hungry for male stimuli and rubs on their boobs and the predictable joy of excited nerves. There was Samantha who had shut herself in her apartment, only to emerge fully bimbo, having jilled herself silly on wooden spoons and appliances. Carrie, the smartest woman she knew, who now licked big colorful lollipops all day, giggling, because it felt good on her rough tongue.

But even as animals went, even as she squirted herself silly in front of the boys, she was sort of a little special, wasn’t she? As late as three weeks in, an exhausted, girly mess, dribbling and drooling and tits aching, she’d coded a little bit of C++, wringing it out of some reach that the endorphins hadn’t found. And yes, rewarded herself by rubbing her bulging clitty against her keyboard, ruining it and her code in the process. And herself. But it WAS special. Some of the girls were mewing, heavy-lidded sex junkies after the first delicious cum. Three weeks she’d held out!

On the other hand, it was week five.

Mary lived in the office building now. She doubted she could even get to her apartment. The car drives had gotten a little crazy at the end, white-knuckling them as she soaked in her own juices. Her seat was probably still underwater.

Mr. Widener considered his responses. One option was to stick his cock in her mouth. It generally worked. But he’d just done that with Sucky. And it WAS Mary...

“Mary, do you think we men are special?”

“Men are the most incredible things on earth,” Mary responded, sincerely. They were gods. She believed that with all her heart. They could bring her to such ecstasy. She worshipped their dicks. She’d apologized to Terrence and Perry for narcing on them. She’d apologized a hundred times, with her cunt, her mouth, her ass, even her words.

“No. Well, more special than you. But Mary. You know how programming made you special?”

“I typed with both fingers so I wouldn’t set my titties off!” But there was no reason to let back now. Mary put her palms over them, let the itchy wool rub and rub.

“Right. Right. Well, guess what. None of us are programming. The company is defunct. Over. Ended. Half the world became silly bimbo sluts like yourself. There is very little call for business to business ecommerce packages. We may be facing food shortages.”

This type of global socioeconomic talk fell into what Mary thought of as Boy Stuff, and she paid no attention to it, except the part where a man was taking her seriously. She giggled and twirled her hair. She’d put a lot of effort into it—other girls didn’t, letting it become a cummy, ragged affair.

“But,” Mr. Widener said. “We stayed. Because you girls are special. To us. Especially, you Mary. I think you know why you’re special. No one in the entire world ejaculates like you do, I’d bet. No one. Did you know what your nicknames are in the renaming contest?”

“Is it like, Pampers?”

“Mary, please,” Mr. Widener said, severely. “No. It’s between Puddles and Squirt. Do you like that? No one else could be named Puddles.”

A new, special name, Mary thought. She tried to wrap her head around it, and although she failed, unable to wrap her head around anything, something about it stuck. She could be special for other reasons, it turned out. Like wetting chair seats. For a girl in the modern workforce, it was something.

“Can I vote too?” Mary said. Puddles, or Squirt? Neither was very feminine. But she could work with them. She had an important business skill. She could get new business cards made up, or whatever. She smiled, pleased.

“No, you may not,” Mr. Widener said.

He was done humoring her. Mr. Widener stood up. He was naked from the waist down, and his cock was returning to full mast.

It’d be fun to fuck Squirt on the desk. The way she moaned and clawed and came, she made a guy feel very special.