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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2017 by The Technician.

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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Where to begin?

I guess I should start by saying that my name is Sue… except it really isn’t. The conditions of the bet said I had to write up what happened and post it. It didn’t say that I had to use my real name. So, Sue is close enough. I will use made up names for everybody involved and change the name of the city. Everything else is correct.

It all started because Tyson’s Corner is almost exactly half-way between Boston and Atlanta.

What does that have to do with it?

That means that a lot of the young people who work for the government here are from Boston– like Charmont is. And a lot are from Atlanta– like I am. In fact, in our little LSGO (that’s a Logistics Support Group Office) of twelve people, six of the young women are from Atlanta and six are from Boston. We work in an AMC (that’s Army Material Command) warehouse located near Tyson’s Corner, Virginia. Most people think our building is a mall or something, except that the lot is fenced in and there are things stacked all over outside.

It is a huge facility, and when I say huge, I mean, HUGE. We can park right next to the building, but we still have about a six or seven block walk to work. Of course that walk is inside through rows and rows of heavy-duty steel shelves that tower above us, but it is still a six block walk. The shelves are so tall that the forklifts which the loaders use have four segments to them. As soon as the second segment starts to open, these leg-like things pop out of the corners of the forklift and lower themselves to the ground to keep it stable. It’s a really big place and our office is right in the middle of it.

I don’t know why the office is located in the middle of the warehouse. I think it’s a hold-over from the old days before computers when the LSGO secretaries had to physically carry their load reports out to the loaders who were preparing shipments for wherever in the world. Now, we just tell the computer which printer to spit the report out of and the loaders in whichever segment have whatever they need. It is only if one of the printers is not working that anyone ever comes into the office– though usually, we use it as an excuse to walk out and flirt with the loading crew.

One of the perks of the job is a really large “staging area” next to the offices which has been converted into a break room. Because we use a very high speed cable modem to communicate with other AMC facilities world-wide, we have a standard cable connection to the office. There are all sorts of scramblers and stuff like that on the signal, but the cable and modem are just good old ComCast. That means we have basic cable in the break room. And somewhere along the line, someone was able to requisition a 72″ HD television and some really comfy couches and recliners. I think they “got lost in shipment” to somewhere, but I’m not going to report anyone about it.

I know it is illegal to hold private parties on government property. I know that it is also illegal to bring alcohol onto the base. But as long as everything stays within the office area, none of the Army people give a shit. There are security cameras all over the place out in the warehouse but for our privacy–or whatever–there are no cameras inside the offices themselves. So what happens in the office–or should I say break room–stays in the break room.

We’ve had some rather wild and noisy Play Off Parties in the break room this year as both Atlanta and the Pats worked their way up to the Super Bowl. When Super Bowl Sunday came around, we were ready. The party started around noon. We had all agreed that everyone was going to stay overnight in the break room so no one tried to drive home. We might all have terrific hangovers on Monday morning, but we would all be there and not in jail– or worse. It was like some giant slumber party, except we were all in our twenties and instead of drinking pop and watching teen-aged chick flicks, we would be drinking hard liquor and watching a football game. I guess pizza remains the same no matter how old you are.

By the time the game actually started Sunday evening, we were all pretty well boozed up. We pushed two of the couches up in front of the TV and set them in sort of a V with the low table with the drinks and goodies on it between us. One of the girls–I think it was Darlene–said, “Hey, this looks like we are on a TV game show.”

Charmont, who seemed to be the lead Patriots fan, said, “Then we should have some prizes. I say that each time our team scores a touchdown, we win some nice clothing.” She laughed and said, “From you Falcons’ bitches.”

“OK,” I yelled back. “Strip football it is!”

We all sat back–more or less–to watch the game. The first quarter was boring as hell, so we mainly sat there and drank and trash-talked each other’s teams. By the time Devonta Freeman caught that pass in the end zone in the second quarter, we were pretty well gone.

As soon as he hit the ground, I screamed out, “Falcons score! We win!” I then turned over to Charmont and said, “You lose! Fork over some clothing!”

“What about the extra point?” Darlene asked.

“Socks?” one of my girls said in a really slurred voice. “Socks aren’t really clothes anyway.”

“OK,” Charmont said. “Shoes and socks for the extra points.”

“But if you run out of clothes,” I said loudly as I stood up, “if you run out of clothes, then you pay a penalty. A spanking. As many swats as the combined score!”

My couch of Falconettes cheered. Charmont looked at the girls on her side for a moment before glaring at me and saying angrily, “Deal!”

Actually, none of us thought that we would actually run out of clothes. We were all wearing basically the same thing– shoes, socks, slacks, top, bra & panties. That was enough clothes for four touchdowns plus four extra point attempts. The way this game was going, it was going to be a very low-scoring game so none of us were worried.

Each of the Patriot girls forked over a shoe and their bra. Except for the fact that they looked a little odd sitting there all wearing only one shoe, nothing looked out of place. Well, nothing except a pile of shoes and bras next to our couch.

Then our Falcons scored a second touchdown. I taunted Charmont, “I’m going to really enjoy paddling your ass when you run out of clothes.”

She snapped back at me, “The Pats will recover!”

“Yeah!” I answered. “Want to bet on that?”

“What you suggesting?” she growled at me.

“There’s enough body camouflage paint out there in the warehouse to create any color we want,” I answered. “When your precious Patriots finally lose, I want your naked body painted in Falcon’s black, silver, and red.”

She looked at the other five girls on her couch before snarling back, “Deal, bitch! Anyone naked at the end of the game gets painted. But it is your naked asses that are going to be painted red, white, and blue!”

I looked at the other girls on my couch and we all yelled back together, “Deal!”

Atlanta scored again and now the girls on the Patriot couch were sitting there in just their panties and one sock. “You bitches are going to be naked over my lap real soon,” I taunted.

“The Pats will come back!” Charmont said defiantly, standing up and facing me. “They always come back!”

“If you’re so damn sure of that,” I said, moving off the couch to put my face right up in hers, “then lets up the bet.”

“What do you want?!” she growled.

“Let’s make it personal,” I said with a laugh. “All this is getting me turned on. I will need some relief by the end of the game. After I finish paddling your ass with a ping pong paddle, I expect you to kneel between my legs and give me the relief I need.”

Charmont stood thinking for a moment or two and then turned to the other girls on her couch. All of them nodded slightly and Charmont turned back to me and said, “Deal!”

The game went into the halftime Falcons up fourteen-zip, but a couple of the girls on my couch were starting to get cold feet. “What if we lose?” Darlene whined to me. “You didn’t check with us before you made those bets. You don’t mind lapping pussy. In fact, I think you prefer it, but I’m not that into it and neither are the others.”

“Don’t worry, I said. “If we lose, I’ll make it up to you.”

“How will you do that?!” Darlene hissed loudly. “You gonna lap our pussies?”

“OK,” I said. “If that’s how you want it. Yes, If we lose, I’ll lap your pussies.” I stood up and let the booze speak for me– BIG mistake. “In fact,” I said, swaying and pointing to all of the girls on both couches, “I will be your personal office slave if we lose and lap your pussies whenever you want.” I paused to burp slightly and then added, “one week for each touchdown scored by the Patriots.”

I turned to Charmont and slurred out, “You want to take that as part of our bet?”

Charmont laughed. She has a really deep laugh some times. “I should say, ‘Hell no,’” she said loudly, “but something tells me that I will enjoy having an office slave for a while.”

One of her girls said, “That’s just for the team captains? Right?”

“Yeah,” Charmont said. “It’s just me or Sue who ends up crawling around naked sucking office pussy if we lose.” She gave that deep laugh again and said, “But I won’t lose because the Pats are going to come back.”

The second half started and we settled down to watch the game and trash talk each other’s teams. Then the Patriots scored a field goal.

“We didn’t talk about field goals,” Darlene said. “What do we do?”

“Same as a point after,” Charmont said. “Fork over shoes or socks.”

We all threw a shoe over at the other couch.

Then, with just thirty seconds left in the third quarter the Falcons scored again. Our side cheered and made lewd comments as the Falcon girls slid off their panties and added them to the pile of clothing at the end of the couch. I was surprised–well not really surprised–that Charmont and one of the other girls were totally smooth downstairs. They all sat back on the couch trying to hide their nakedness.

“I’m really going to enjoy paddling your naked ass,” I once again taunted Charmont.

“The Pats will come back,” she said firmly.

“You sure enough of that to up the bet?” I asked.

“What you talking?” she spat back.

I looked at the girls on the couch and Darlene piped up, “Post pictures on the internet?”

“No!” one of the other girls said quickly. “They would be around forever. Who knows who would see them?”

“Then posting the story of all this?” Darlene countered.

“That’s it!” I said. “When you lose, Charmont, you will write up a detailed account of your shameful loss and what you had to do. It has to be posted on at least four sites.”

Charmont chuckled. It was a deep throaty chuckle. “Deal,” she said. “I will enjoy reading what you have to say. You write it. I’ll decide where to post it.”

“Agreed,” I said. “But you’ll be the one doing the writing and I will be the one doing the posting.”

The Pats managed to eke out a touchdown before the end of the third quarter, but they couldn’t even get the extra point, so all any of us lost was our bra.

The fourth quarter was a different story. When the Patriots brought it to twenty – twenty-eight with five minutes to go, Darlene, who like all of us was down to her panties and one sock, sat there crying and sobbing, “We’re going to lose. We’re going to lose.”

“No, we’re not!” I yelled at her. “No one has ever come back from this far before… ever! We aren’t going to lose!” Charmont’s laugh from the other couch, however, caused chills to go up and down my spine.

Everyone was now standing in front of the TV screaming at their teams. When the Patriots scored again, I just stood there in shock.

“Shuck down!” Charmont yelled in my ear. I turned to her in total disbelief, but my hands slid down my sides and soon my panties were on the floor.

“Pick ‘em up and hand them to me!” Charmont growled. “And your sock!”

I had pushed my sock off my foot when I slid off my panties. I picked both up and set them in Charmont’s hand. She looked and me and laughed. It was a very deep, very evil-sounding laugh.

There were now twelve naked women standing in front of a giant screen TV screaming for their teams to score.

“What now?” Darlene asked when the final gun sounded and the score was tied.

“Sudden death,” Charmont said slowly. Then she turned to me and said, “Want to double the bet?”

“Which bet?” I asked.

“Slave to the office,” she answered. “Right now, you’re talking four weeks–five after the final touchdown. If we double that, you are the office slave slut for ten weeks.”

I stared back at her. Despite the alcohol fog, the office side of my brain was still functioning. “That means,” I said, “that you will be the naked, office slut slave until Easter.”

“Never said anything about being naked that long,” she replied, “but if that’s the way you want to play it… Deal!”

The yelling and trash talking stopped. We all stood in front of the screen watching as the Patriots won the coin toss and elected to receive. We watched as the kick off went into the end zone and Danny Amendola took a knee to stop play.

Charmont and her girls became noisier and noisier and we became more and more quiet as the Patriots moved steadily down the field. We were all holding our breath as Bennet almost caught the football in the end zone. We again held our breath as another pass was incomplete. Then James White pushed over into the end zone for that final score and we Falconettes let out our breaths in one long whooshing sigh.

“We lost,” Darlene said softly.

“Yes,” Charmont said as she grabbed my elbow and led me back to the couch. “You lost. And the combined score is 82.”

“Darlene,” she called out, “you get your naked ass over to aisle J-17 where they keep recreational supplies and you bring back six, good, strong ping pong paddles.” She laughed. “We got some spanking to do.”

They didn’t spank us all at the same time. Instead, at Charmont’s direction, they did us one at a time so we had to listen to the screams and howls of the girls before us.

Naturally, I was last. All the while that the other girls were getting their asses beaten, Charmont sat slowly stroking my ass. She knew it was turning me on and she took wicked pleasure in whispering to me, “You’re getting all wet thinking of what’s coming, aren’t you?”

I wanted to tell her she had it wrong, but I wasn’t sure myself. Was I responding to her stroking or to the idea that I was about to get my ass turned purple in public? That fantasy was so deep in my closet that I didn’t even admit it to myself.

Finally, it was my turn. For some reason, Charmont shifted me on her lap so that I was almost falling off. I wasn’t sure what she was up to until she slammed into me that first time. She had moved me so that my clit was right over her hard knee. Each slam of the paddle drove me into her knee.

Now there was no question of whether or not I was responding sexually to the spanking. My yelps of pain were starting to get more and more throaty. Charmont was not letting up, but continued to swing harder and harder into my ass. The pain was getting greater and greater, but so, too, was the pleasure.

She knew exactly what she was doing and played my body like a violin so that I reached the limit of pain I could stand and the limit of how long I could hold back an orgasm at the same time–and that was on stroke eighty-one.

I was crying out and sobbing, “No more! No More!” on stroke eighty. On eighty-one I was screaming in passion. On eighty-two I passed out.

When I came to, I was lying on my back at Charmont’s feet. “Was that good for you?” she asked derisively.

As I tried to stagger to my feet, she said, “Don’t bother getting up. There is still that matter of relieving some tension.”

Her voice became very loud and very firm as she said, “This time you are all doing this at the same time.” She made her voice even more commanding as she ordered, “And you losers do not decide when you are done. You stay between the winner’s legs lapping twat until she is satisfied.”

She then stroked my head and said more softly, “And I have a LOT of tension to relieve.”

It was almost an hour later when Charmont ordered Darlene to go out and get camouflage body paint from the warehouse. We all stood there as the winners giggled and made comments about our bodies as they painted us in various patterns of red, white, and blue. I ended up looking almost like Wonder Woman except I had large white stars on my breasts with my nipples painted a bright red so that they looked like a cherry on the top of a fancy milkshake.

After they were done painting us, they told us that we were their slaves until tomorrow and had to do whatever they demanded. That wasn’t really part of the bet, but we were all so beaten down that we just nodded our heads and did whatever we were told to do. I know for a couple of the girls that included more tongue and scissor work.

This morning, early, they allowed Darlene and the other four losers to use the showers located in the warehouse locker rooms to clean themselves up. Since we all knew in advance that we were going to be spending overnight at the facility, they had proper clothing for work in overnight cases which they had brought the night before.

I wasn’t allowed to shower. Charmont said it would be good for me to stay painted up for my first day as a naked office slave. As she was going over to shower, Darlene walked past me and smacked my already sore ass with a paddle she had concealed in her hand. “This is all your fault!” she said angrily.

“You’ve got a hard ten weeks ahead of you,” Charmont said with a smile. “Your girls have decided that all shipping pull orders get hand-delivered for the next ten weeks.” She laughed. “Care to guess who is going to be walking the paperwork out to the loading crews?”

She pointed to one of the fork lifts and said, “Darlene suggested suspending you by your ankles from the lift at full extension, but less angry heads prevailed.”

She smiled at me and said, “We will find many interesting tasks for you to perform over the next ten weeks. … But your first task is to write up what happened so I can post it on some story sites.”

She smiled again and said, “I’ve got a friend who will post it for me so there is no paper trail back to me. W knows what sites I read, so I know it will get posted in all the right places.”

She then leaned in close to me and said, “And when we leave for the day, you have a choice to make.”

She stroked my swollen ass very, very lightly and said in almost a whisper, “You can go home and masturbate to all the fantasies last night fulfilled for you. … Or you can come home with me and live out your fantasies as my personal slave and girl toy.”

As she walked away, she turned, winked at me, and blew me a kiss. “Think about it,” she said with a smile.

I already know my answer.

I just have to find out how to get out of the lease on my apartment.

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END OF STORY
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