When the president nominated her for a Cabinet position, Neera Tanden was honored. Flattered. Overjoyed. As Director for the Office of Management and Budget, she could judge other agencies' programs, place rules on funds, align the budget to meet objectives she saw as worthy and make her case right to the president himself. The Power of the Purse, right in her delicate hands, along with plenty more besides.
Those lofty dreams ended with her Senate hearings. Minute by minute, they reamed her with reminders of divisive tweets, negative Glassdoor reviews, anything they could find to tank her nomination. A media resurgence of her past scandals and policy positions didn't help. In only a few short weeks, she found herself requesting a withdrawal of her nomination to preserve what precious dignity remained. The president accepted, vowing to find another place for her in his administration.
He would have, too, if her detractors had not found one first. Still in the OMB. Not as flashy, not as powerful, not as respected. In a word, bad. The whole idea was insulting and absurd, and she would have shot it down immediately, if not for the greatest Trojan horse of this new administration: unity. They wanted unity. Proof that the president and his supporters wanted to reach across the aisle.
Mrs. Tanden would be the proof. With that one policy wrinkle, repeated over and over and over on every conservative outlet like a relentless mantra, her fate was sealed. The president had to agree, and so did she. Anything to get in their good graces.
One easy, breezy vote later, she was fully confirmed. Neera Tanden, former President and CEO of the Center for American Progress, accomplished graduate of Yale Law School, veteran staffer with more than 21 years under her belt as directors and advisers for Clinton through Obama, would now be using her vastly impressive education and experience...
"Here's your grande decaf espresso, sir."
... to fetch coffee.
She smiled, handing the drink to the OMB's newest intern. As Intern Assistant, she had a simple mission: please her young bosses. Do what it took to keep them happy, calm, nourished to maximize their performance and learning experience. In this office of 32 interns, she filed papers, booked meetings, delivered mail, and yes, brought coffee, to people over half her age. She might have felt like a cougar among them, if not for having to take their orders while acting like a giddy helper eager to please.
But what ached her most wasn't the years between them. It was having to stand by and watch them struggle through problems so simple she could clear them in no time, if not for rules barring her from work outside the scope of her duties. She couldn't even give advice, with the excuse that the "stupidity" and "poor judgment" of her tweets made what she had to say worthless. More likely to ruin their promising careers than nudge them in the right direction.
Her brains and skills meant nothing here. Only her obedience, and her body, which likewise followed her new job's dress code. Plenty of makeup, a pearl necklace, high heels, short skirt, cleavage bared in some manner or another. Today, it was through a slit running down the chest of her red dress daring young interns to take a peek. A series of horizontal strips following the slit held its two sides together, doubling as a means to keep wandering hands out of her bust and save her from showing more skin than needed. It met the rules she had to work by, whether Republicans liked it or not. One of her few victories.
But it did nothing to dissuade people from treating her like the office sex pet, especially its men.
"Your tits are looking hot today, Neera," Brian, another intern, said as he approached down the cubicle aisle.
This comment would have triggered a sexual harassment complaint in a normal job, with normal policies and procedures for treatment of employees. Not for hers. Without those protections, Neera had to grin, widely, and bear it.
"Why thank you, sir," Neera said, balling her hand to contain herself. "It's wonderful to know that my efforts to look good are appreciated."
He did more than appreciate. As he walked past her, he gave her butt a firm slap. The color would have drained from her face and then rushed back if she didn't have enough makeup to hide it. She was so consumed with his actions, she hadn't noticed at first when Jim, the new intern, slipped a pen through one of her dress gaps and into the crack between her breasts.
"This batch of paperwork's done, make sure it gets to Allie," Jim said, pushing a thick folder into Neera's hands.
"Right away, sir."
Her high heels clicked as she passed row after row of up-and-coming young bosses plugging away at work well above her pay grade.
Of $7.25 an hour. It stung to have her wages cut so low, through special legislative finagling that overrode Washington D.C.'s laws. Stung more that she, a married mother of two, had to live outside her own home for what Republicans called a humbling experience. Make it on her own, with that small amount, get to know what it felt like to start from the bottom where newcomers wouldn't have the audacity to burn bridges. All of that being another way of saying they wanted to punish the upstart Asian American lady with tiny checks to match her tiny place in the world of politics.
Earnings that low didn't carry a woman very far in D.C. Lucky or unlucky for her, she had plenty of men and a few women she worked for willing to give her some lodging... for special payment.
One of them caught her mid-stride and pulled her into the office's favorite place for some R&R: the broom closet. She knew this room well, from shelves of duct tape and paper towels to the smell of ammonia. The file folder she carried slid from her grasp, scattering its contents, when she saw what awaited her.
Tom's dick. It was bad enough she had to see it in bed with him every night for the past week, now he had it whipped out in front of her at work. She couldn't deny him, either. Rules said so. Fighting off the urge to scowl, Neera smiled brightly once more and dropped to her knees.
"Oh, Tom, you're so big," Neera whispered, caressing his length gently.
He didn't want gentle. His cock pushed past her lips, disrupting any other nice things she had ready to spout. Her nose sniffed his cock musk while she fellated. From prospective Director of the OMB to washing an intern's dick with a warm tongue bath. The disgrace was palpable every time. Tom wasn't a hanger-on, either. When he grabbed the back of her head, gripping her hair tightly, with an erratic bucking to his thrusts, she had her warning. Closing her eyes, she waited. It didn't take much longer.
"Yeah, take it you slut."
Tom came. Sealing her lips around him, she sucked for every last drop. She would have spit if she could, but she couldn't afford making a mess of her pretty dress. The stains alone would cost a fortune to remove, money she didn't have, the appearance expected from her in the office notwithstanding. Once satisfied he was fresh out, Neera unleashed him for the tried and true reward of a condescending head pat.
"Good girl. Just the pick-me-up I needed to get through the rest of the day," Tom said. "I'll see you again later tonight."
He quickly pulled up his pants, fastened them and headed out the door, leaving Neera alone with her latest assignment strewn around her. But right as she started gathering the crumpled sheets, she heard a chime and groaned.
It was social media time. The second worst time in her work day, after what happened moments ago. The buzz against her cunt reminded her of its urgency as she reached under her skirt and fished it out of her panties. A tap stopped the alert. Turning on the camera, she tested several angles before she found one that caught her wild hair, her gorgeous rack, a hint of semen on the corner of her mouth and the mess beneath her. Putting on her best face, she took the shot. Attached it to a tweet. Filtering a comment through the new language she had to use, she typed out her message, hit send, and cringed while reading what she had put out into the world.
"Sooooo glad I don't gotta be director," her tweet began. "My silly lady brain couldn't take all those big hard numbers. Super happy to work for all these super hawt, super smart hunks. Livin the dream! <3333"
Despite how it pained her, it wasn't enough. It needed to be worse. More suggestive. More degrading. Prompting her to add in reply: "The only raise I need!"
She paired it with a kiss emoji and an older photo, a selfie she could pass off as one intern showing his approval with a thumbs up while everyone's eyes were drawn to the bulging hard-on in his pants. His name and head were cropped to keep him out of the news when people gossiped about the one-time Cabinet nominee's exploits as the office slut.
Which would be her life. Under the agreement, her tenure as Intern Assistant had no term limit. No route to quit or resign. Only the daily grind of completing menial tasks for her juniors, debasing herself for their pleasure, and facing annual reviews until a day when she was deemed sufficiently sorry for her crimes of a lot of mean tweets and bad takes. Judging by the likes her newer tweets received, she had no end in sight.
Returning her phone to its hole, Neera went back to picking up the pieces of paper on the floor. It was the closest she would come to doing the same for her dignity any time soon.
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Neera Tanden, Intern Assistant
When the president nominated her for a Cabinet position, Neera Tanden was honored. Flattered. Overjoyed. As Director for the Office of Management and Budget, she could judge other agencies' programs, place rules on funds, align the budget to meet objectives she saw as worthy and make her case right to the president himself. The Power of the Purse, right in her delicate hands, along with plenty more besides.
Those lofty dreams ended with her Senate hearings. Minute by minute, they reamed her with reminders of divisive tweets, negative Glassdoor reviews, anything they could find to tank her nomination. A media resurgence of her past scandals and policy positions didn't help. In only a few short weeks, she found herself requesting a withdrawal of her nomination to preserve what precious dignity remained. The president accepted, vowing to find another place for her in his administration.
He would have, too, if her detractors had not found one first. Still in the OMB. Not as flashy, not as powerful, not as respected. In a word, bad. The whole idea was insulting and absurd, and she would have shot it down immediately, if not for the greatest Trojan horse of this new administration: unity. They wanted unity. Proof that the president and his supporters wanted to reach across the aisle.
Mrs. Tanden would be the proof. With that one policy wrinkle, repeated over and over and over on every conservative outlet like a relentless mantra, her fate was sealed. The president had to agree, and so did she. Anything to get in their good graces.
One easy, breezy vote later, she was fully confirmed. Neera Tanden, former President and CEO of the Center for American Progress, accomplished graduate of Yale Law School, veteran staffer with more than 21 years under her belt as directors and advisers for Clinton through Obama, would now be using her vastly impressive education and experience...
"Here's your grande decaf espresso, sir."
... to fetch coffee.
She smiled, handing the drink to the OMB's newest intern. As Intern Assistant, she had a simple mission: please her young bosses. Do what it took to keep them happy, calm, nourished to maximize their performance and learning experience. In this office of 32 interns, she filed papers, booked meetings, delivered mail, and yes, brought coffee, to people over half her age. She might have felt like a cougar among them, if not for having to take their orders while acting like a giddy helper eager to please.
But what ached her most wasn't the years between them. It was having to stand by and watch them struggle through problems so simple she could clear them in no time, if not for rules barring her from work outside the scope of her duties. She couldn't even give advice, with the excuse that the "stupidity" and "poor judgment" of her tweets made what she had to say worthless. More likely to ruin their promising careers than nudge them in the right direction.
Her brains and skills meant nothing here. Only her obedience, and her body, which likewise followed her new job's dress code. Plenty of makeup, a pearl necklace, high heels, short skirt, cleavage bared in some manner or another. Today, it was through a slit running down the chest of her red dress daring young interns to take a peek. A series of horizontal strips following the slit held its two sides together, doubling as a means to keep wandering hands out of her bust and save her from showing more skin than needed. It met the rules she had to work by, whether Republicans liked it or not. One of her few victories.
But it did nothing to dissuade people from treating her like the office sex pet, especially its men.
"Your tits are looking hot today, Neera," Brian, another intern, said as he approached down the cubicle aisle.
This comment would have triggered a sexual harassment complaint in a normal job, with normal policies and procedures for treatment of employees. Not for hers. Without those protections, Neera had to grin, widely, and bear it.
"Why thank you, sir," Neera said, balling her hand to contain herself. "It's wonderful to know that my efforts to look good are appreciated."
He did more than appreciate. As he walked past her, he gave her butt a firm slap. The color would have drained from her face and then rushed back if she didn't have enough makeup to hide it. She was so consumed with his actions, she hadn't noticed at first when Jim, the new intern, slipped a pen through one of her dress gaps and into the crack between her breasts.
"This batch of paperwork's done, make sure it gets to Allie," Jim said, pushing a thick folder into Neera's hands.
"Right away, sir."
Her high heels clicked as she passed row after row of up-and-coming young bosses plugging away at work well above her pay grade.
Of $7.25 an hour. It stung to have her wages cut so low, through special legislative finagling that overrode Washington D.C.'s laws. Stung more that she, a married mother of two, had to live outside her own home for what Republicans called a humbling experience. Make it on her own, with that small amount, get to know what it felt like to start from the bottom where newcomers wouldn't have the audacity to burn bridges. All of that being another way of saying they wanted to punish the upstart Asian American lady with tiny checks to match her tiny place in the world of politics.
Earnings that low didn't carry a woman very far in D.C. Lucky or unlucky for her, she had plenty of men and a few women she worked for willing to give her some lodging... for special payment.
One of them caught her mid-stride and pulled her into the office's favorite place for some R&R: the broom closet. She knew this room well, from shelves of duct tape and paper towels to the smell of ammonia. The file folder she carried slid from her grasp, scattering its contents, when she saw what awaited her.
Tom's dick. It was bad enough she had to see it in bed with him every night for the past week, now he had it whipped out in front of her at work. She couldn't deny him, either. Rules said so. Fighting off the urge to scowl, Neera smiled brightly once more and dropped to her knees.
"Oh, Tom, you're so big," Neera whispered, caressing his length gently.
He didn't want gentle. His cock pushed past her lips, disrupting any other nice things she had ready to spout. Her nose sniffed his cock musk while she fellated. From prospective Director of the OMB to washing an intern's dick with a warm tongue bath. The disgrace was palpable every time. Tom wasn't a hanger-on, either. When he grabbed the back of her head, gripping her hair tightly, with an erratic bucking to his thrusts, she had her warning. Closing her eyes, she waited. It didn't take much longer.
"Yeah, take it you slut."
Tom came. Sealing her lips around him, she sucked for every last drop. She would have spit if she could, but she couldn't afford making a mess of her pretty dress. The stains alone would cost a fortune to remove, money she didn't have, the appearance expected from her in the office notwithstanding. Once satisfied he was fresh out, Neera unleashed him for the tried and true reward of a condescending head pat.
"Good girl. Just the pick-me-up I needed to get through the rest of the day," Tom said. "I'll see you again later tonight."
He quickly pulled up his pants, fastened them and headed out the door, leaving Neera alone with her latest assignment strewn around her. But right as she started gathering the crumpled sheets, she heard a chime and groaned.
It was social media time. The second worst time in her work day, after what happened moments ago. The buzz against her cunt reminded her of its urgency as she reached under her skirt and fished it out of her panties. A tap stopped the alert. Turning on the camera, she tested several angles before she found one that caught her wild hair, her gorgeous rack, a hint of semen on the corner of her mouth and the mess beneath her. Putting on her best face, she took the shot. Attached it to a tweet. Filtering a comment through the new language she had to use, she typed out her message, hit send, and cringed while reading what she had put out into the world.
"Sooooo glad I don't gotta be director," her tweet began. "My silly lady brain couldn't take all those big hard numbers. Super happy to work for all these super hawt, super smart hunks. Livin the dream! <3333"
Despite how it pained her, it wasn't enough. It needed to be worse. More suggestive. More degrading. Prompting her to add in reply: "The only raise I need!"
She paired it with a kiss emoji and an older photo, a selfie she could pass off as one intern showing his approval with a thumbs up while everyone's eyes were drawn to the bulging hard-on in his pants. His name and head were cropped to keep him out of the news when people gossiped about the one-time Cabinet nominee's exploits as the office slut.
Which would be her life. Under the agreement, her tenure as Intern Assistant had no term limit. No route to quit or resign. Only the daily grind of completing menial tasks for her juniors, debasing herself for their pleasure, and facing annual reviews until a day when she was deemed sufficiently sorry for her crimes of a lot of mean tweets and bad takes. Judging by the likes her newer tweets received, she had no end in sight.
Returning her phone to its hole, Neera went back to picking up the pieces of paper on the floor. It was the closest she would come to doing the same for her dignity any time soon.