Chapter 1)

God, I loved the sixties! I got my first job, lost my virginity, eventually got married, learned a few life lessons and generally had a hell of a good time.

My name is Martin. I am the oldest and have two brothers and a young sister. Mum and Dad had brought us up well as a typical working-class family with all the expectations of getting a job and then getting married. The boys, Dominic, Kelvin and me, were expected to work hard all our lives and Maria, the baby of the family at ten, was expected to work till pregnant and then bring her kids up. Yes, it looks a little like a pipedream these days, but that’s what the expectations were, even if things were loosening up a bit with the swinging sixties and the availability of the contraception pill for married ladies (it was extremely difficult for unmarried ladies to get it, morality, not common sense, being the watchword of many doctors back then).

I was fifteen when I left school and joined Hosking and Co. as an office junior in the accounts pending department. I was just over the main growth spurt of puberty and had topped off just under six feet with a wiry, athletic form that had yet to fill out somewhat. Hosking’s is a big company that does financial accountancy and employs many people to do the various associated tasks. Initially, my job was to act as a messenger boy between the departments whilst I trained in the arcane art of general accounting. This was in the days well before computing and even calculators. It wasn’t quite all done by hand but by basic adding machines. You also quickly learned not to make mistakes; you make too many, and you are out the door with no chance of getting a good reference. It also meant I was doing evening classes twice a week to get qualifications that would one day allow me to call myself a chartered accountant, though that was some way off.

Fortunately, I was good at basic math. I got the hang of the Burroughs bookkeeping machine that did the various payrolls and accounts for the company right up until the 1980s when everything was replaced by IBM machines and their basic accounting software.

The really, really good thing, though, was that the place was chock full of women, from young girls straight out of school through young marrieds to older marrieds and spinsters. It wasn’t like the occasional male fantasy of being staffed by glamour models, though there were a good few good-looking ones and many motherly types.

Being the junior, naturally, I was the butt of several jokes, being sent off once for a ‘long stand’ and eventually being clued in by a sympathetic manager who had amusingly watched me waiting outside the stationary dept for an hour, as they supposedly looked for one.

The one thing the guys didn’t warn me about, though, was to avoid the typing pool and their ‘initiation ceremony’, in which any young male who started with the company was dealt with in a manner that let them know just who was in charge.

It was the first day of my second week with the company. After spending my first week doing a basic introduction to the company course, I was sent to take the departmental internal and external mail to the head of the typing pool, Mrs Saunders.

She had to be in her late forties and ruled the roost of the pool with a rod of iron. An average figure with a cool gaze accentuated by horn-rimmed spectacles that could even have a departmental manager quaking in their boots should they cross her somehow.

I brought the trolley with the mail on it into the room and walked towards where Mrs Saunders sat, noting that a wave of silence followed me as I passed row after row of typists until I reached her desk, this being before the days of email where everything was done by paper.

“Yes, young man?” she enquired after deigning to notice me after my polite cough.

“Mail delivery,” I replied politely.

“Is it sorted?”

“Yes, Mrs. Saunders,” I replied. “Internal and external.” I indicated the respective piles.

“Good,” she nodded. “You must be new here?”

“Yes, Mrs. Saunders.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Martin, Mrs. Saunders.”

“Then you haven’t been initiated into the room access protocols, have you?”

“Er... no, Mrs Saunders,” I replied as she looked me over with a cool, appraising eye.

“Oh well, off you go,” she nodded as I turned and went to leave, only to hear a loud click as one of the junior typists locked the door with a definite snap and others pulled down the blinds.

“Get him, girls!” came a loud call as several of the women grabbed me and easily lifted my struggling body into the air.

“Ladies... please!” I squawked. But more came up and held me.

“Please what?” came a loud giggle as I felt my belt being loosened.

“What... seriously, what?” I gasped as my pants came off, followed by my (fortunately clean on today's Y fronts).

“Ooh, he is a big boy!” came a loud laugh and a lot of giggles as several of the grinning women grabbed marker pens and began to daub my legs, etc., with various, mostly obscene, drawings as I struggled even move to escape.

What I didn’t notice was several of the older marrieds who had returned to work but were eying me appraisingly and plotting a future for me that I would never have believed if you had told me the day before.

Finally, though, the ladies had had their fun, and I was released and allowed to pull my pants up again and scurry humiliated and blushing furiously, from the room.

***

“Don’t worry about it, young fella,” Bill, my section head, consoled me as he put a mug of tea into my shaking hands. “They get all the young un’s, and it’s just a bit of fun for them. Won’t happen again, so my best advice is to pay it no never mind and look ‘em dead in the eye when you do the next run and see who blinks first.”

“Thanks, Bill,” I nodded, along with a still trembling hand.

“It’ll go no further, and you might even be a favourite of theirs now,” he chuckled, making me look at him suspiciously. He refused to elaborate, simply telling me to get on with my work.

That was pretty much it for the rest of the day, other than a few jokes on my behalf about how the women had a new favourite, which I didn’t really understand. So, home, I went on my bike and, unusually for me, had a bath as I tried (mostly successfully) to scrub away the indelible marker ink they’d used all over me, including my cock and testicles. I did find myself blushing furiously as I remembered my ordeal, including the inadvertent erection that they’d given me. Though admittedly, they hadn’t been rough with it, just squeezed it and gave a few impressed whistles as they set me down. I did lie to the family about how my day went. After all, there was no way I was going to admit a bunch of women had debagged me and written ‘big boy’ on my cock after all.

***

The following day, I found I’d been put on permanent ‘mail duty’ and trundled the trolley containing various draft copies to be typed up or letters to be passed on to the multiple sections that made up Hosking’s. I approached the typing pool with some trepidation, though I decided to put a brave face on it and be a good sport. This turned out to be a wise decision as nothing happened except a few giggles, though Mrs Saunders gave my groin a very appraising stare as I approached, making me blush slightly, though not overly so.

Once again, I was quizzed about sorting the mail before she nodded.

She finally said, “Doreen will accompany you with the managerial mail and drop off the confidential assessments.”

“Yes, Mrs. Saunders,” I replied as a buxom, blonde-haired, middle-aged lady stood and approached, carrying a small pile of brown secure envelopes.

“Off you go then; you haven’t got all day after all,” she dismissed me.

“Yes, Mrs. Saunders,” I repeated myself, turning the trolley around with Doreen following in my wake.

Doreen was polite and friendly, introducing me to the personal secretaries of the directors and managers, a good few of whom gave me a long look of appraisal, making me blush slightly.

Finally, though, Doreen led me to what appeared to be a restroom.

“In here,” she said with a coquettish smile.

“Er... isn’t this a lady’s room?” I asked.

“A restroom for women, yes; however, you have my permission to enter, and we won’t be... disturbed,” she replied in what I could easily describe as a purr of satisfaction.

“OK...”

“Please sit, and let’s have a nice... chat, Martin,” she requested with a sultry smile.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Oh, so formal, Martin. Here, you should call me Doreen. I insist.”

“Ahhh ... thank you, Doreen.”

“But only in here. We do need to keep things proper outside.”

“Yes, ma... Doreen.”

“So, Martin, do you know why you’re here?”

“No, Doreen, not really,” I replied nervously, thinking a load of women were about to charge in and do something even worse to me.

“Well, as you were such a good sport yesterday and appear to be very... manly endowed in a certain area, some of us ladies would like to introduce you to the ways of pleasure between a man and woman,” she replied in a husky voice.

“I, er... I don’t know what you mean, Doreen,” I swallowed nervously as I was literally petrified in the manner of a mouse being toyed with by a cat.

That was a preview of The Office Junior. To read the rest purchase the book.

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