"Jon, thank God you're here. We need to talk," the tall skinny man in grey slacks said, "There's been a problem with the production line."
"What kind of problem?" Jon asked, conveying his interest by leaning forward, accidentally giving the man a nice view down his prosthetically produced cleavage.
"It's the main machine," the man answered, eyes glued to Jon's chest, "the foreman says that there was a breakdown this morning. They've got it running again, but only at half-speed. I hate to bother you, but everyone seemed to agree that if you couldn't get it going, nobody could."
Jon curved his painted lips up into a smile. He had no idea what machine the man was talking about, but the compliment didn't go unnoticed. Without pause, Jon grabbed his purse and stood up.
"Lead the way, my good man," he said with a lilt in his voice.
And lead he did. Since Jon didn't know his way around the building, the tall, skinny man took it on himself to make sure Jon didn't get lost, which Jon was immensely glad for. As they walked, Jon feeling the reassuring warmth of the man's hand through his skirt and panties, firmly holding his behind in a confident grip, Jon was so happy that he had ended up in a business where people were so trustworthy.
The man was so attentive to Jon's need to feel safe that, during the elevator ride, he thoughtfully stood behind Jon, holding him by his breasts, all the while grinding his groin into Jon's ass, helping Jon know that if anything happened that was out of the ordinary, the man would be there to back him up every step of the way. For a moment or two Jon wondered what it was that was so hard in the man's groin that kept poking him, but dismissed it as an insignificant question. Most likely it was something specifically designed to make Jon feel safe. In appreciation, Jon pressed his backside into the man's groin in response for the duration of the ride.
From the elevator, the man once again guided Jon through the hallways, but this time they had to walk more slowly since the man had developed some sort of bulge in his pants that was making walking awkward. Jon was just about to ask if he could help the man in any way when they passed through a large door and walked onto the factory floor.
It was a large room with a huge machine on the far side. The rest of the room was taken up with wooden crates, each with a decal on its side declaring its destination. The helpful man in the grey slacks paused to grab a couple hard-hats, a steely grey one for himself, a nice pink one for Jon. Jon was thankful, once again for the man's help, and grabbed the man's face and pulled it into his cleavage for a long, appreciative hug. It was, after all, the least he could do.
After their huge was complete, the man lead Jon across the room to the machine, which was chugging along sluggishly. Jon was unsure as to what the company produced, but he was in the mood to be helpful, so he listened to the foreman complain about the slow response of the machine, staring at the machine thoughtfully. Workers were gathered around, watching to see what Jon would do, mostly men in their overalls, but a few crossdressers wearing high-heels and mini-skirts. Jon tried not to make eye-contact with them, since the last thing he wanted to do was be associated with their type.
After the foreman had completed his complaint, Jon pulled the emergency stop lever on the machine, hiked the hemline of his sundress and climbed up on the input conveyor to get a closer look at the machine's inner workings. There were more than a few encouraging whistles from the workers as he crawled along the belt, one or two of the men even slapped his ass to let him know that they were happy an expert was on the job. How he had ended up with such a good job was beyond him.
The machine was dark, so Jon climbed further and further into it, feeling his way rather than seeing. The conveyor began to climb upward, and so did Jon. The passageway narrowed, so he moved with more mincing movements. Soon, just ahead of him, Jon felt something long and rubbery trapped in the machinery. He didn't know what it was, but he was pretty sure that it wasn't supposed to be there. Giving it a tug, it barely gave. Over an over Jon tugged on the long, rubbery item, but it was slick, oily even, so his hand kept slipping, running up and down the length, again and again.
Seconds turned into minutes and Jon was still busy tugging on the item, hoping that he had found the problem. Whatever it was, his actions seemed to be making a difference of sorts. The item was growing hotter, longer, even stiffer. Soon he could feel it pulsing under his touch. This only encouraged Jon, so he redoubled his efforts, tugging harder, faster, more eagerly. There was a large pulse, then, surprisingly, the item began to spray hot sticky liquid all over Jon. Knowing that he was making headway, Jon relished in the spray, tugging more and more, until the item began to deflate, and to Jon's joy, came loose from its resting place.
Holding his trophy in his hand, enjoying the rewarding feeling of the hot liquid cooling on his face, on his chest, Jon was about to climb down, when...
