Client Relations
Danielle Moore used to run the show.
VP of Strategy. Ivy League educated. Suit tailored sharp enough to draw blood. She led teams with a flick of her pen, sliced through bullshit with cold blue eyes, and didn’t even own a pair of heels higher than two inches. “Sex appeal is for amateurs,” she used to say. “Real power doesn’t beg.”
But then the cough started.
Just a little tickle at first. A sniffle. Nothing to worry about. TF-19 was mostly hitting younger girls—students, baristas, influencers. Not women like her. Not powerhouses.
Except it did.
It hit her hard.
By the end of the week, her pencil skirts were mysteriously tighter. Her walk had more sway. She blamed the dry office air for the way her voice started to rise into a bubbly, breathy lilt.
By week two, Danielle’s blouse buttons refused to hold. Her bra—when she bothered wearing one—strained just to contain the twin, perky balloons now attached to her chest. Her lips had swollen plush and shiny, always coated in some shade of pink gloss she didn’t remember buying.
And her mind… oh, her poor, foggy little mind.
The numbers stopped making sense. Spreadsheets were just… so boring, like, ugh. She’d stare at her monitor for hours, clicking her pen with a vacant little smile, until someone came to give her something she could actually do.
That something usually involved her lips.
“Danielle? Are those... fistnets?”
She twirled on the spot in the middle of the office, giggling, her glossy heels clacking on tile. “Aren’t they, like, soooo cute? I found them in my drawer! I think they make my legs look super long and slutty.”
Her boss choked on his coffee.
Once poised and polished, Danielle now bounced from desk to desk, tits wobbling with every step, offering services to stressed-out coworkers. “You need help, Mr. Benton? Mmm, I’m, like, soooo good with, like, stress relief...”
She didn’t understand contracts anymore. But cock? Oh, baby—her lips remembered that.
Clients started requesting her by name. Deals closed faster. Satisfaction spiked. And Danielle… well, Danielle didn’t even need a paycheck anymore. The thrill of being used, of being admired, degraded, and spread across the conference table… it was better than any bonus.
She sat on the corner of the CEO’s desk now, legs crossed high, skirt bunched up, giggling as he signed off on another million-dollar deal. “See, like, I told you I was good for business!”
He couldn’t disagree.
“TF-19’s a tragedy,” the HR report claimed. “We’re doing all we can to support our staff.”
But Danielle didn’t want a cure.
She wanted another round of cock.
The old Danielle—the sharp, commanding woman—was just a fading dream, locked behind glassy eyes and a moaning mouth. Her ambition had melted into arousal. Her goals were now simple: please, bounce, swallow, repeat.
At the next quarterly meeting, she showed wearing nothing at all, sitting down and presenting herself for use.
She wasn’t the only one infected, after all.
