Abbie was the kind of English girl that probably inspired a thousand saucy seaside postcards; rosy apple cheeks and the soft features that men want in wives but not mistresses. She had a perfect apple bottom requiring the high maintenance of cream cakes and walking briskly past the gym.
We were alone in the office of the accountancy firm of Andrews, Abraham and Achilles, working late preparing for a meeting the following day. I had been supervising Abbie's preparation of a set of final accounts. Nothing earth shattering; a medium sized engineering firm with a decent level of import/export trade and a couple of million pounds in turnover, but plenty for her to sink her teeth into.
I considered our mentoring arrangement to be advancing admirably. We had the odd heated exchange of views, but on the whole, our dialogue was frank, open and constructive. Abbie was a talented young accountant; shrewd, down to earth, and had that crucial level of attention to detail. She was one of the new breed, working on tablet computers and multitasking, familiar with social media and smart phones. She shopped for things on the internet during her lunch breaks which she alluded to but never said outright, so I assumed they were sex toys.
I was the last of the old school. I got assigned to the sort of clients who, when they asked me to look at their books, produced a set of old fashioned feint ruled ledgers, with notes in their margins and tea stains on the covers. I kept an eighteen inch wooden ruler to help me on such occasions. It could stretch across the open pages, and gave me a certain amount of gravitas with those company directors who attended school back when corporal punishment was commonplace. They would nod approval when I brought it out of my briefcase, and consider me a decent sort of chap as I donned my spectacles and asked where I could plug in my adding machine.
The ruler took pride of place on my desk. A powerful symbol to young accountants of the way things used to be done. Abbie had occasionally shown an interest in it, picking it up and then asking to borrow my quill pen or abacus. She was feisty, but charming with it.
We had both been staring at our computer screens for too long when she let put a deep sigh of boredom. She stretched her arms up and then said, "You never stare at my chest, Artie!"
I tore my eyes away from a spreadsheet, unsure that I had heard her correctly. With her arms extended upwards, the material of her blouse was stretched across her chest and I could see that her bra was pink with a complex lace pattern.
"I watch you staring at the other girls' boobs," she said, acerbically.
I blushed knowing what she had said was true, but her eyes twinkled mischievously. It was more of a flirtatious provocation than accusation.
I seized the opportunity to be candid, "That's because I prefer looking at your bum. And when you tell the postman that you have eyes in the back of your head, I fear you might catch me admiring your bottom."
Her expression changed and I realised that I had crossed some invisible line of office politics and political correctness. That's it, I thought, solid career record ends in sexual harassment case.
Abbie stood up from her desk and walked over to the filing cabinet where we keep the employee handbook. She bent at the waist to open the bottom drawer and the material of her skirt stretched across the plump derrière that was going to be the agent of my downfall. She looked behind her to make sure that I was watching. Her long chestnut hair fell down so that it almost touched the floor.
She extracted a file and carried it to her desk. It was entitled 'Mentoring for Professional Standards'.
"Well," she said, "I'm going out on the fire escape for a ciggy."
And with that, she sashayed down the hall like a catwalk model on the towering high heels of her black patent Mary-Jane shoes. She really did have the most delicious derrière. I sat at my desk quietly reflecting on the seismic shift in the nature of my relationship with Abbie.
On her return, she plonked a cup of tea down in front of me and stood by my desk with her hands on her hips.
"Ugh, it's freezing out there. My nipples could poke your eye out."
She looked down her blouse to admire her own chest.
"Shame you're not a boob man, eh? My bum's nice and warm. Sensible knickers. What sort of knickers do you like Artie? Do you like women to go out on the town with no knickers on?"
She was firing questions at me without giving me time to answer. She leaned her elbows on my desk and rested her dimpled chin on her palms; her back arched pushing out her bottom.
"I mean, do you like lacy knickers or silky knickers?"
She playfully stroked my necktie and waved the end of it in front of my face.
"It's a lovely word," she whispered, so close I could smell the cigarette smoke mixed with her perfume, "Knickers, knickers, knickers."
Then she threw her head back and laughed.
"I've made you blush. At last, I've made Artie blush," like she was addressing a conference room full of people.
"I hope you show this much confidence tomorrow, Abbie," I said, trying to turn the conversation back to work despite the counter argument in my trousers.
"I'll be fine. Their accounts are done, thanks to your help. I will breeze through a meeting with a bunch of old flat cap and tweed engineers. What sort of dull bits and bobs do they make, anyway? Oh fuck, I hope they don't make us endure a tour of the factory. I do not look good in a high visibility tabard. We can have some fun now, the pressures off."
"Oh, so that's why you've gone all giddy."
"Maybe," she said.
"Thought you might have followed me into the kitchen when I was making your tea. It's so small in there, this keeps bumping into stuff. You could have
innocently
had a rub up against me."
She slapped herself lightly on the bum. I thanked her for the tea.
She said, "I didn't figure you for an ass man."
I said, "I'm not really. It's just that yours is rather splendid."
"Oh, Artie you do talk funny, 'rather splendid', you sound like an old Ealing comedy. "
Mock hurt, I said, "Just because I'm twenty years older than you doesn't mean I can remember when films were black and white."
Without prompting she sat down on my lap.
"Comfortable?" I asked.
"Very comfy, thanks. You?"
"Very," I replied, although, the effect she has creating inside my trousers was causing slight embarrassment. My erection was so hard that she must surely have felt it pushing against her.
"Can I tell you something very personal, Artie?"
I shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance.
"That what's poking into my hip is really turning me on."
She shuffled round in my lap and threw an arm around my shoulder. She gave me a big smacker of a kiss on the cheek. I pulled her face to me and we kissed passionately.
When she broke away, she said, "See, I knew you were a gentleman. A lad would have stuck his hand up my skirt and into my knickers by now."
I said, "Sometimes strength of character is expressed by what you don't say or do."
She seemed perplexed by that and changed the subject back to her agenda, "And can I tell you another secret."
I allowed her to continue confessing, "It's only fair, now that we are really getting to know each other on a more personal level."
"I have a thing for older men. I don't mean sugar daddies. I just mean more charming and polite than blokes my own age."
"I think men become more considerate lovers when they get older." I shocked myself at the boldness inherent in that statement, but I pushed the point home, "We're less selfish than the young bucks."
"Yes, that too suppose. But I like to be told what to do, if you get my drift."
I remained silent, now she was beginning to blush.
"I like the sort of firm discipline that younger men never got at school, and so don't know how to... administer."
She lifted the ruler from my desk. "Is this really just for show, Artie, or do you know what to do with it?"
"My dear," I said gravely, "you are not the first trainee to be taken under my wing. The partners understand that I have quite a penchant for ameliorating apprentices, especially pretty young novices with beautiful bottoms."
Sweet old Artie had disappeared; the tone of voice I adopted was that of Arthur the disciplinarian.
"As your mentor Abigail, I have tried to guide you and support you. I feel that I must give you more direct feedback."
"I will appreciate your feedback", she said, and then added, "sir", rather coyly.
I took the ruler out of her hand.
"Do you understand what I mean when I say direct feedback Abigail?"
"Well", she gulped, "I hope it means bending me over and spanking me."
"Yes, that is exactly what it means."
Her eyes lit up at the confirmation that I wanted to spank her beautiful ass.
"Have you been spanked before, during your adult life?"
