The Company Hole: Part One

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The Unwelcome Revelation

Bob had always fucking hated the Christmas decorations at Humpwell & Kuntbash. The red and green tinsel looked less like holiday cheer and more like someone had yanked out the guts of a dying animal and draped them over the cubicle walls. Plastic Santas leered from every desk, their painted grins looking like they’d just finished jerking off in the supply closet. Someone had strung up lights that blinked in a pattern that could probably give a nun a seizure. But this year, the decorations felt off. Wrong. Like they were hiding something nasty under all that fake cheer, the way a whore smiles before she bites your cock.

He slunk through the office with his head down, eyes glued to the coffee-stained carpet tiles like they might open up and swallow him whole. The fluorescent lights above buzzed like a swarm of angry bees, painting everyone in a piss-yellow glow that made the whole place look like a morgue for failed accountants. Bob hugged a manila folder to his chest like it was a bulletproof vest, praying it would make him invisible, or at least keep him from getting his balls stomped on before he made it to his desk.

“Hey, Bobby-boy!”

A meaty paw slammed down on his shoulder, almost knocking him flat on his face. Bob turned and found himself staring up at Gary from maintenance—the same janitor Lucy had mentioned, the one with the reputation for fucking anything that moved. Gary’s grin was all yellow teeth and bad breath, and his work shirt looked like it was about to lose a fight with his gut. He stood so close Bob could practically taste the cigarette stink rolling off him.

“Heard the good news,” Gary said, his grin widening. “Your wife’s a real team player, huh?”

Bob’s stomach clenched. “I—what?”

But Gary had already moved past him, chuckling to himself as he pushed his cleaning cart down the hallway. Bob stood frozen, his tie suddenly feeling too tight around his throat. What the hell did that mean? Team player? He tugged at his collar, loosening the knot slightly, and forced himself to keep walking.

He could feel eyes crawling all over him as he walked. Jenkins from accounting shot him a shit-eating grin and a thumbs up, like Bob had just won the lottery for Most Pathetic Husband. Two secretaries by the water cooler whispered behind their hands, their looks dripping with the kind of pity you reserve for a dog that’s about to get put down. Bob’s face burned, sweat slicking his palms until the folder nearly slipped out of his grip.

“Lucy’s a lucky lady,” someone called out, and laughter erupted from a nearby cubicle.

No, Bob thought. Lucy wasn’t the lucky one in that sentence. He was supposed to be the lucky one. Wasn’t he?

He finally made it to his desk and dropped into his chair like a sack of shit, his hands shaking so badly he almost spilled the folder everywhere. His computer screen was a blur of unread emails, none of which mattered. The words might as well have been written in Martian. His heart thudded in his chest, and, worst of all, his cock gave a pathetic twitch in his pants, like it was in on some sick joke he hadn’t been told.

Cut it out, he told himself. There’s nothing to get hard about. This is just nerves. Just humiliation. Just—

“Bob.”

The voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. Bob looked up to find Mr. Humpwell standing at the entrance to his cubicle, his large frame blocking out most of the light. The older man’s gray hair was slicked back with too much pomade, and his tie—red and green striped for the season—hung loose around his thick neck. His face wore the expression of someone who’d just won a bet.

“My office,” Humpwell said. “Now.”

It wasn’t a request.

Bob’s legs felt like water as he stood, following his boss through the maze of cubicles toward the corner office. He could feel every eye on him, tracking his movement like predators watching wounded prey. The walk felt impossibly long, each step echoing too loudly in his ears, his breath coming short and shallow.

The door to Humpwell’s office closed behind them with a heavy click that sounded final, like a cell door locking.

“Sit,” Humpwell commanded, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

Bob sat. The leather creaked beneath him, and he realized his thighs were pressed together, his body unconsciously trying to make itself smaller. Humpwell settled into his own chair with a grunt, leaning back and steepling his fingers across his considerable gut.

“You know why you’re here,” Humpwell said. It wasn’t a question.

“I—no, sir, I don’t—”

“Don’t play dumb, Bob. It’s unbecoming.” Humpwell’s eyes narrowed. “It’s December. Christmas time. Time for traditions.”

Bob’s mouth had gone dry. He tried to swallow, but his throat clicked uselessly. “Traditions?”

“Every year, we select one of the newer wives.” Humpwell’s smile spread slowly across his face, revealing yellowed teeth. “This year, it’s Lucy’s turn.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and incomprehensible. Bob blinked, trying to process what he’d just heard. “Lucy’s turn for what?”

“Christ on a Christmas cracker, you really are thick, aren’t you?” Humpwell leaned forward, his forearms resting on the desk. “Your wife has been selected as this year’s cum bucket.”

The floor lurched under Bob’s chair. Cum bucket. The words rattled around in his skull, refusing to make sense. There was no way they meant what he thought they meant. No fucking way.

“I don’t—”

“Every male employee,” Humpwell continued, his voice taking on the tone of someone explaining a very simple concept to a very stupid child, “gets unrestricted access to your wife’s mouth. Blowjobs. Facials. Whatever the fuck they want, as long as it involves her lips and their cocks.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “And you watch.”

Bob’s vision tunneled. The office walls seemed to press inward, the air growing thin. “That’s—that’s ridiculous. That’s illegal. You can’t—”

“Can’t?” Humpwell’s face darkened. “Can’t? Let me tell you what I can and cannot do, you little shit. I can fire your ass right now. I can make sure you never work in this industry again. I can destroy any reference you think you might have coming.” He stood, his bulk casting a shadow across the desk. “Or you can go home tonight, talk to that pretty little wife of yours, and explain that this is how things work at Humpwell & Kuntbash.”

Bob opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His thoughts raced, tripping over each other. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. Companies didn’t do things like this. People didn’t do things like this.

But while his brain screamed no, his cock was already betraying him, thickening in his pants like it wanted to volunteer Lucy for the job.

“Picture it,” Humpwell said, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “Your Lucy, on her knees in the conference room. That mouth of hers—and it is a nice mouth, I’ll give you that—wrapped around Gary’s cock. You know Gary, right? The janitor? Big guy. I’d wager he’s packing at least nine inches of thick, veiny meat.”

Bob’s cock jerked to attention in his slacks, the traitorous little bastard.

No. No, this wasn’t arousal. This was fear. This was shock. This was—

“Or maybe she starts with Jenkins. He’s not as big, but he likes it rough. Likes to grab a woman’s hair and fuck her face until she’s gagging on it, tears running down her cheeks.” Humpwell’s eyes gleamed. “Would Lucy cry, you think? Would she choke and sputter while you sit there watching?”

A dribble of precum oozed from Bob’s cock, soaking into his boxers and making him feel like a horny teenager caught jerking off by his mom. His face was on fire, shame burning so hot he thought he might actually melt. He wanted to bolt. He wanted to scream. He wanted to smash Humpwell’s fat, smug face in until his knuckles bled.

Instead, he just sat there, frozen, his cock throbbing painfully against his zipper, advertising his humiliation to anyone who cared to look.

“I’ll talk to her,” Bob whispered, the words scraping out of his throat like broken glass.

“What was that?” Humpwell cupped his ear mockingly. “Didn’t quite catch that, Bobby.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Bob repeated, louder this time. His voice cracked on the last word, his eyes stinging with unshed tears of humiliation. “I’ll—I’ll explain the tradition.”

“Good boy.” Humpwell sat back down, waving his hand dismissively. “You’ve got until Monday. That’s when we start. Conference room B, nine a.m. sharp. And Bob?” He waited until Bob met his eyes. “You better make sure she’s enthusiastic about it. Nobody likes a reluctant cocksucker. And I'm not having some cuck-stick fuck up tradition. This is a 118-year-old company. You're not going to fuck this up just because you fell in love with a set of tits with a mouth. Go on.”

Bob stood on shaking legs and stumbled toward the door. It was, perhaps, the most insulting thing he'd ever heard. His hand fumbled with the handle, his coordination shot to hell. Behind him, he could hear Humpwell chuckling, a low sound that followed him out into the hallway.

The walk back to his desk was a blur. Bob could barely see through the haze of shame and confusion clouding his vision. His cock remained stubbornly hard, tenting his slacks obscenely, and he had to hold his folder in front of his crotch to hide it. Every step sent friction through the fabric, making him bite back a whimper.

When he finally slumped back into his chair, he noticed his hands were shaking, his whole body trembling like he’d just run a marathon naked through the office. And under all the horror and disgust and the mind-bending insanity of what had just happened, his cock was still rock hard, drooling precum into his boxers as his brain played endless loops of Lucy’s lips stretched around cocks that weren’t his.

***

Bob had rehearsed the conversation in his head during the entire drive home. He’d practiced different approaches at red lights, tried out various phrasings while navigating traffic, and by the time he pulled into their driveway, he’d convinced himself he knew exactly how to explain the situation to Lucy. But now, sitting across from her at their small kitchen table, watching her eat the pasta she’d made for dinner, all those carefully constructed sentences evaporated from his mind like water on hot pavement.

He pushed a piece of penne around his plate with his fork, creating tracks in the marinara sauce. The pasta had probably tasted fine—Lucy was a decent cook—but Bob’s mouth felt like it was full of sawdust. Every attempt to swallow made his throat click audibly.

“You okay?” Lucy asked, twirling spaghetti around her fork with practiced ease. “You’ve barely touched your food.”

Bob stared at her lips as they closed around the fork, sucking in a strand of pasta. Those lips—full, soft, made for cock-sucking. He’d kissed them, sure, felt them on his dick a few times, but now all he could see was what Humpwell had described: Lucy’s mouth stuffed with someone else’s cock.

Every male employee gets unrestricted access to your wife’s mouth.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Bob said, his voice coming out strained and unnatural. “Something that happened at work today.”

Lucy set down her fork, giving him her full attention. Her auburn hair fell across her shoulders, and she was wearing one of her casual blouses—nothing fancy, just something comfortable for around the house. But Bob found himself noticing the way it draped across her breasts, the suggestion of her bra beneath the thin fabric.

“Is everything okay?” There was concern in her voice. “Did something happen with your job?”

“Not exactly. I mean, sort of. It’s complicated.” Bob took a breath, trying to organize his thoughts. “There’s this… tradition. At the company. Humpwell told me about it today.”

Lucy tilted her head slightly, waiting.

“Every Christmas, they select one of the newer wives for…” Bob trailed off, his eyes fixating on Lucy’s lips again. He watched her tongue dart out to wet them, a nervous habit she’d always had. “For the Christmas tradition.”

“What kind of tradition?” Lucy asked, leaning forward slightly. The movement made her blouse gape open at the collar, giving Bob a glimpse of the curve of her breasts.

Bob’s face went red hot. His hands were slick with sweat, and he wiped them on his pants, leaving damp streaks. "You’ve been picked. For this year’s…" He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t call his wife a cum bucket to her face, not while she was eating pasta. "For, uh, services. Oral ones."

“Services?” Lucy’s eyebrows rose. “What kind of services, Bob?”

"Oral. Blowjobs. Every guy at the company—every single one—gets to use your mouth. Blowjobs, facials, whatever they want, while I sit there and watch like some kind of pathetic cuck. Humpwell says it’s tradition, says I’ll get fired if we don’t go along. I know it’s fucking insane, and I told him no, obviously, but—"

“That sounds like fun.”

Bob’s jaw actually dropped. He sat there, mouth hanging open, staring at his wife like she’d just spoken in a foreign language. Lucy had set down her fork with deliberate slowness, her expression shifting from concern to something else. Something that looked almost like… interest?

“What?” Bob managed to choke out.

“I said it sounds like fun.” Lucy’s lips curved into a small smile. “How many employees are we talking about?”

“You—you can’t be serious.” Bob’s hands gripped the edge of the table. “Lucy, they want you to suck off every man in the office. Every single one. While I sit there and watch.”

“I heard you the first time.” Lucy’s smile widened. Her pupils had dilated, Bob noticed. The black had expanded until her eyes looked almost predatory. “I’m asking how many men.”

“I don’t—forty? Fifty?” Bob stammered. “Does it matter? You can’t actually be considering this.”

“Why not?” Lucy reached for her water glass, taking a slow sip while maintaining eye contact with him. “We need the job, don’t we? The money? And it’s not like it’s actual sex. Just blowjobs.”

Just blowjobs. Like that made it okay. Like the image of his wife on her knees, lips stretched around cock after cock, her face painted with cum like some kind of office whore, was just a minor detail.

Bob’s cock twitched under the table, stiffening no matter how hard he tried to will it down. The more humiliated he felt, the harder he got.

“There have to be laws against this,” Bob said desperately, grasping at any argument he could find. “Workplace harassment, sexual coercion, something. We could report them, go to the police—”

“With what proof?” Lucy interrupted, her voice maddeningly calm. “Did Humpwell put this in writing? Did he email you an official ‘please have your wife suck off the office’ memo?” She paused, watching Bob’s face. “I didn’t think so.”

Bob opened his mouth, closed it again. She was right, of course. Humpwell had been too smart for that. Everything had been verbal, deniable.

Lucy leaned in, and Bob shrank back, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Her nipples poked through her blouse, hard and obvious. Was she turned on by this? Was the thought of a parade of cocks using her mouth actually making her wet?

“Think about it,” Lucy said, her voice dropping lower, more intimate. “All those guys. Gary from maintenance—remember how I mentioned him? He’s huge, Bob. Not just tall. I mean everywhere.” She paused, letting that sink in. “Probably way bigger than you.”

Bob’s cock went rock hard, straining against his zipper so hard it hurt. Under the table, his erection made a tent in his slacks, obscene and impossible to hide. He was so hard it felt like his dick was about to rip through the fabric.

“That’s not—we can’t—” Bob struggled to form coherent sentences. “You’re my wife.”

“I know I am.” Lucy’s smile had taken on a teasing edge now. “That’s what makes it hot, doesn’t it? The fact that I’m yours, but they get to use me?” She spread her legs slightly under the table, a movement so subtle Bob almost missed it. “What are you afraid of, Bob? That I might like it?”

“No,” Bob said quickly. Too quickly. “That’s not—”

“That I might like it better?” Lucy continued, her eyes locked on his face. “That I might enjoy having a real cock in my mouth instead of your average little dick?”

Her words hit Bob like a punch to the gut. His face burned with shame so fierce he thought he might actually faint. But under all that humiliation, his cock drooled precum into his boxers, throbbing with a sick, twisted excitement he couldn’t deny.

“I’m just saying,” Lucy added, her tone softening slightly, “if we have to do this for the job anyway, we might as well make the best of it. Right?”

“We don’t have to do this,” Bob said weakly. “We could quit. Find new jobs. Both of us.”

“And pay the bills with what?” Lucy challenged. “We’re barely making rent as it is. You want to add a job search on top of that? How long do you think our savings will last? A month? Two?”

Bob stared at his plate, the pasta now a cold, sticky mess. He couldn’t look at Lucy. He couldn’t stand to see the way her eyes sparkled, the way her nipples still pressed against her blouse, her body practically begging to be passed around like the office’s favorite slut.

“Monday morning,” Bob said quietly, defeat evident in every syllable. “Conference room B. Nine a.m.”

“I’ll be ready,” Lucy said, and there was something in her voice that made Bob’s stomach clench. Not reluctance. Not resignation. Something that sounded almost like anticipation.

Lucy stood, picking up her plate and carrying it to the sink. Bob watched her walk away, his eyes tracking the sway of her hips, the curve of her ass beneath her jeans. His wife. His partner. The woman he’d vowed to love and protect.

And come Monday morning, he’d be sitting in a conference room, watching every guy in the office use his wife’s mouth like a cum dumpster, while his own cock throbbed in his pants like the world’s most pathetic cuck.

Bob’s cock throbbed under the table, hard and leaking, betraying every ounce of dignity he thought he had left. He sat in the silent kitchen, listening to Lucy hum as she washed dishes, trying not to picture Gary’s fat cock stretching her lips, trying not to imagine the wet, choking sounds she’d make when the first load of cum splattered the back of her throat.

But he couldn’t stop. The images kept coming, filthier and filthier, and the worst part—the part that made his stomach twist—

Part of him didn’t want to.