By 5 o'clock on Monday afternoon, most people have gone home, and I am tidying my desk ready to leave work when my phone rings. I answer it and hear your voice: "Come to my office now." Then you hang up. I am startled by the arrogance of your curt order, but I find myself walking along the corridor. Your door is closed and I knock, opening the door and walking in when you tell me to come in. "Close the door," you tell me.
You remain silent for a moment and my discomfort grows, standing in the middle of your office looking at you expectantly, unsure of why you have called me here. Then you turn on your computer monitor and I see a screenshot of my FetLife profile page. My heart immediately drops to my stomach. I thought I had been careful to keep my identity hidden on there...
"How do you explain this?" you ask. "You know that there are very strict rules about this. I assume you've read our social media policy? This is gross misconduct." There is very little I can say to justify the stories I have posted online. I bite my lip as it begins to dawn on me that there might only be one way to prevent you telling our manager and causing me to lose my job.
"Please, please don't tell anyone. I'd lose my job. Please, I'll do anything..." I plead.
"Why would have known that you were such a dirty little slut?" you continue, smirking. "It's always the quiet ones that you have to watch out for." You roll your chair away from your desk and stand up, moving across the room to lock the door and pull down the blinds.
"Come here. Stand in front of me," you order. I hesitantly walk over to you, moving closer when you curtly order me to. "So, you'll do anything, will you?" You place your hands on my bottom and give it a squeeze, looking up at me from where you sit, gauging my reaction. I tense and you hear a sharp intake of breath. I bite my lip and look down at you imploringly, but I do not dare to protest, knowing what a predicament I am in.
Your hands move down my bottom and over my thighs until you reach the hem of my dress. Then you move your hands onto my bare legs and very slowly move them up my thighs. Your eyes remain fixed on mine and I look down, blushing.
"Will I find that your pussy is wet?" you ask me.
"No," I stammer. But I know my body is betraying me. I have fantasised so often about you touching me, dominating me and giving me orders, although not quite like this. But I cannot admit that to you. I can feel myself growing aroused at the feel of your strong hands on my thighs and I am not sure whether I want you to stop or to continue.
"You will address me as 'Sir'," you tell me. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir," I squeak.
Your hands continue their journey up my thigh, stroking over the soft flesh. My thighs part involuntarily, allowing you access. After a torturously slow few minutes, I feel your finger brush against the fabric of my knickers. You continue to move your hand upwards, rubbing over my labia, until you reach the top of my knickers. Without warning, you use both hands to quickly pull down my underwear, exposing my hot, wet pussy. You keep hold of my knickers, gesturing for me to step out of them. Then you hold them to your face, inhaling my scent and rubbing the wet spot.
"It seems you have already lied to me. Your knickers are wet." You open your desk drawer and place my knickers inside before closing it. I feel humiliated, but so aroused. I know this is wrong, but I want you to keep touching me. Without thinking, I subtly adjust my position, remaining standing still but thrusting my breasts out in invitation.
You stand up and move behind me, pushing me firmly over your desk. You push my skirt up around my waist. I gasp but feel my pussy growing wetter at this display of your natural dominance. You order me to spread my legs and keep my face down. My bare bottom is exposed to you, pushed up in the air. You place your fingers between my legs and then with little ceremony I feel them plunge inside my dripping wet cunt. I instinctively push back against you, drawing your fingers deeper.
