“The Leland Stanford Junior University...” I gazed at the elegantly embossed words at the head of my framed diploma. Mounted on the wall of my office, it was the one crown jewel that I allowed myself to wear, with my name printed in the same gothic font, below which followed the words that constantly make my heart swell with pride: “...who has satisfactorily pursued the Studies and passed the Examinations required therefor the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy...”
Never dream about success—work for it. Such an outlook was impressed upon me at a young age. So, I didn’t dream of a PhD in Bioengineering from Stanford. I worked for it. When I received a job at a start-up biophysics firm in the Bay Area, I made sure that my starting job was temporary. Now, that diploma hangs on the wall of a Senior Scientist’s office.
My office.
And every day I watch as the four older men that make up my research team walk through that door to report to a 27-year-old woman. The youngest, John, is ten years my senior; the oldest, Richard, is over thirty years my senior. The other two, Francis and Mike, are both old enough to be my father. Yet it’s been a while since they’ve thought it wise to treat me as anything other than a supervisor, and that deference means something special being a woman in a male-dominated STEM industry. Part of me hopes that someday a little girl will walk inside this room of symbolic authority and find inspiration in my sight now, of that diploma hanging proudly on the wall...
...with a harsh sting on my scalp, the diploma was gone from sight as my head was ripped backwards in the air. Now my only choice of view was John's face, teeth clenched, cheeks huffing bright red, and eyes bulged and crazed as I felt all that madness unleashed on my body, his thrusts unhinged from all discipline in a race towards satisfaction.
The dam between my legs, the one straining under the unrelenting pressure of ecstasy, was already weak from repeated collapse. Now, under the onslaught of John's wild humping, I could feel it once again begin to crack and splinter. My whole body tightened, fists clenching, toes curling, as it braced itself for the raging flood ahead...
...but with a final jackhammer of a thrust John stopped dead inside me and a long, coarse groan met my ears.
Then he was gone.
Lying in near delirium with my tits pressed against my desktop, all I could do was pant as the waves of pleasure abated. My fingers ached with the desire to rub myself, to do anything to finish that job and bring the dam down. But my arms had long resigned to the computer cables tied tightly around my wrists, pinning them down and out in bondage to the legs of the desk, leaving my body slung over the workspace like it was part of its design, a warm wet pussy hanging off the side for free use.
