Vicky returned the next day, nervous, intent on winning her father’s approval. During the evening, Vicky had considered her choices, her life. She looked her estranged father up online. His net worth was several billion dollars, and he was on the Forbes list of the wealthiest men in the world. Growing up, the only thing that Vicky had heard about her father was that he was, “a rich asshole that never wanted anything to do with us,” and Vicky knew, now, that this was the case. Her mother had received some sort of money from him,
Vicky was sure, because they’d never wanted for much, even though her mother worked as a secretary for a small insurance agency. Vicky had, also, attended an expensive private school for girls, which had helped to instill her with her values. Until her most recent encounter with the man, the only interactions Vicky herself had with him had been the monthly checks she, herself, received, which allowed her to pay her meager expenses and rent a small apartment, while she attended a local college on a scholarship.
As Vicky rode the elevator up to her father’s floor, now, she felt better about winning his approval. Her father was a dinosaur, one of those tycoons from the mid-twentieth century, who grew up on the stories of railroad barons and industrialists, the kind that had oppressed the common man, while raking in riches for themselves. Still, he did have the money and Vicky dreamed of putting that money to use for positive things, like funding girl’s schools and fighting for equal pay for women. There was so much good that she could do with it, that her head was positively brimming with ideas.
While her father’s idea of an appropriate woman was demeaning, Vicky thought that she could make some concessions, while still retaining her values. To this end, she had carefully shaved her pussy the night before. While there was nothing she could do about the size of her breasts, short of some god-awful surgery, she had done something. Rather than her usual dour and drab clothing, she had purchased a shorter skirt, office-appropriate, and a low-cut blouse that was modest, but a little tight. She’d, also, picked up a bra with padded cups that gave her boobs a little more fullness, while lifting them up to make them more prominent.
Never one to go overboard on makeup, Vicky had, nevertheless, applied a bit of a seductive shade of lipstick today, as well as accenting her eyes to give them a bit of a smoky look. The overall effect, she thought, made her look very cute, but by no means slutty. The last part, her father’s expectation that she have a handprint on her cheek and tears in her eyes, she wasn’t certain how to accomplish, because Vicky did not want to be slapped or to cry. She hoped that her father would just forget about this part, once he saw how cute she looked.
Vicky approached the desk of her father’s assistant, a young woman about her age, who she had noted with disgust the previous day, was dressed like a tart. Today, it was the same. Knowing what she did, though, about the kind of man her father was, she supposed she understood. The job probably paid very well and, to some women, dressing up as eye candy for a wealthy man to ogle wasn’t such a big deal. Once Vicky had her inheritance, she would work to change that, she resolved.
“Good morning,” Vicky said to the girl, who looked up from her computer.
“Morning, honey buns,” the girl said, smacking a piece of gum and giving Vicky a once over, “Here for daddy?”
Vicky nodded and then said, “Is he… do you think he’ll like my outfit?”
The girl considered, then said, “The outfit, it’s okay. The boss likes legs and tits, and your problem is your lack of tits. You got anotha’ problem, too,” she added, frowning.
Vicky raised a questioning eyebrow.
“The boss likes a girl that looks all teary-eyed. You look happy, and that ain’t gonna make the boss happy.”
“But… How am I supposed to do that?” Vicky asked, blushing, angry.
The girl shrugged and said, “If I go in, I usually stop by the office next door and ask Carl to give me a slap or two. If he aint in, I’ll put a binder clip on my clit and pinch it real good until I cry. If I do that, the boss will give me a good slap himself.”
Vicky thought this sounded humiliating, degrading, and ridiculous. It was probably illegal, too. Still, what was she going to do? Go report him to HR? To the police? His cigar-smoking, backroom-dealing chums would probably laugh about it, pay a fine that was pocket change, and then go back to making ludicrous amounts of money, while Vicky would be shown the door.
“I could do it for ya’, I suppose,” the girl said.
“What?”
“Give ya’ a little slap,” she said.
Vicky considered her options. She could go in, unslapped, without tears in her eyes, and get shown the door. She could walk to the office next door and ask a stranger to slap her face, which would do the trick, but that was going too far. Lastly, she could hurt herself in some way, which was not even an option.
“O… okay,” she agreed.
The girl stood up and rounded the desk, then slapped Vicky across the face, hard. The pain and humiliation did the trick, and Vicky’s eyes began to water. The girl gave her a second, backhanded slap, which did make Vicky begin to cry and left a nice, red print on both cheeks. The girl nodded, returned to her desk and picked up the phone. She waited, then said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up the phone.
“Boss says he’s busy,” the girl said, “You’ll have to wait a bit.
Vicky cringed. She’d just let the girl slap her for no reason. She took a seat in one of the chairs and waited. Nearly thirty minutes passed, and then the phone buzzed. The girl picked it up, said, “Yes, sir,” and hung it up.
“Boss will see ya’ now,” she said.
Vicky stood and asked, “Can you… do it again?”
The girl rounded the desk, slapped Vicky again, then again. Vicky, sobbing, opened the door. Her father didn’t look up or acknowledge her presence, continuing to pour over the papers on his desk. Vicky waited, wishing he’d look up at her teary eyes and reddened face, before the handprint started to fade. Finally, he did.
“Vicky,” he said, with a slight nod.
“I… I’m back,” she said.
“I’m old, not blind, Vicky,”
“I’d like to see if you approve of the changes I’ve made,” she said, then added, “Sir.”
“That’s a nice handprint on your cheek,” he said, “Did the slut at the desk give you that? Or were you mouthing off to your betters?”
Vicky flushed, angry, but she said, “Your assistant.”
He nodded approvingly and then said, “Show me your twat.”
Vicky demurred.
“Your twat,” he said again, “or the door. I’m busy.”
Vicky, reluctantly, let her fingers fall to the edge of her skirt, then lifted it to expose the pair of cute, lacy panties she’d put on over her sex.
Her father’s face screwed up in disgust and he said, “Did a man ask you to put on panties?”</