It was late.
The glaring fluorescents had dwindled and died, replaced by the single 60 watt that stood guard over his cluttered desk. The sounds of industry had faded to a steady, isolated humm of air conditioning and the growl of a vacuum in the exterior hallway. He was alone, or so he thought.
"I had to come", she offered in hushed tones, afraid to shatter the pristine stillness that the moment offered. "I was just leaving, packing things away at my desk...and there you were. May I come in?"
He nodded, offering her the single empty chair which flanked his desk, but she moved instead to the leather couch along the wall and settled herself uneasily upon it.
"This couch always draws my attention," she murmured abstractly. "It has so many possibilities, you know." She added, flushing at the thought. "A place to kick back, a restful moment in the middle of the afternoon...somewhere to..."
But she couldn't finish. It was too much. Wasn't it?
She had his attention then, the wide stance she chose to assume offering him a quick glimpse of her lacy undergarment as she made herself more comfortable.
"What do you do here at night, after the others have gone, Gene?" [May I call you that? It's after hours you know. I'm off the clock now.] "Do you stick to business as the clock keeps ticking away? Do you work, Gene, or do you dream? Do your fantasies intrude at times like this? Do I?"
He dropped his gaze then, following the line of her hand as she stroked her thigh....the long, red nails that so often caught his attention during their regular 9-5, creating minute furrows in the thin fabric of her skirt.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "Yes, sometimes you do."
His tiny, flawed admission seemed to open new channels of communication, for she then leaned back on the tooled leather and relaxed her stance even more.
It was a thong, he guessed. The brief strip of lace that caressed the span between her sex and her ass seemed to narrow and vanish as it neared her buttocks, wedging between her rounded orbs in ways that caused his body to quicken. He'd wondered about that.
"I fantasize sometimes too, Gene...here, in the morning when I bring your coffee, then later as I wonder what it would be like to..."
Again she paused, her bravery faltering. Had she imagined it all? Should she turn and retreat to the outer office, to the safety of her desk? But no, she'd come too far. She'd called him 'Gene', a fatal breech in protocol. She was committed.
She swallowed hard. Time to move on. [Move it or lose it. Isn't that what they say?] "I've always wondered how this leather would feel on my bare skin, Gene. Would you mind if I tried?"
He laid his pen atop the desk then, his briefs forgotten. Then silently he nodded his consent. "No, not at all. Please, be my guest." He offered, his body warming to the concept. "Get comfortable if you'd like."
A slow smile crept over her features, a moment of uncertainty, and then she rose and lifted her demure skirt until it pooled around her waist. Finally, taking her place once more she sighed.
"Yes," she whispered in hushed tones. "This is good. I knew it would be, Gene. Thank you for allowing me that liberty."
Again he nodded, his maleness coming to the fore. "Get as comfortable as you wish," he offered, his eyes taking in the moist, dark line that accented her panties. A garter belt...he'd never imagined that she wore one! Now, he'd never visualize her in anything else.
"May I take off my heels, Gene? By the end of the day they're sheer torture, you know. It would be a relief..."
"Of course," he replied, the epitome of good manners. "Get comfortable, My Dear. After all, you're among friends. No need to stand on ceremony."
She crossed her legs then, lifting left over right until the fine lace of her panties shifted and a glimpse of pink, wet "tongue" peeked beyond their confines. A tiny tug, and one red stiletto fell to the floor. She shifted then, causing her panties to imbed themselves deep within the shaven slit that so drew him.
His body lurched, and as the second shoe plopped silently on the carpet he felt the burden between his thighs begin to grow uncomfortably.
"My stockings...they'll be ruined like this, Gene. May I...?"
Again he nodded, eager in his acceptance. "Of course," he replied. "On a secretary's salary stockings like those must be expensive. I wouldn't want you to ruin them."
Again she smiled, then rising she trailed her hands over her abdomen, her thighs, until they came to rest on the clasps of her garter belt. She bent low, and lower yet until the fullness of her breasts filled the cleavage of her thin, silk blouse and threatened to spill out of their brief confines. He was mesmerized.
"Would you help me, Gene?" she asked huskily.
Help her? Help her...?
Oh, the garter belt! He drew his tongue over his lower lip.
"It would be my pleasure," he responded, preparing to rise. Instead she crossed the floor and circled his desk until he could smell the aroma of her sex and feel the heat radiate from between her thighs. Then turning she indicated the clips which stretched across her buttocks from their long, elastic tethers and formed the last restriction to her release.
"Here," she motioned, her hand stroking her rounded flesh. "I can't reach them. Would you...?"
Immediately he set to work, his fingers tracing the taut line of elastic until they cane to rest at a place just below her right buttock, near the hollow delta of her thighs. "Like this?" he murmured, the backs of his fingers grazing the furrow of her ass. "Hold still now while I get the other one."
But she disobeyed! Instead she opened her legs, bending away from him until her 'nether-tongue' came once more into view between her naked thighs.
"That's good, Gene. Those are so hard to get by myself. Do you find that some things are like that, Sir...hard that is?"
He noticed her subtle shift to the more postured mode of address, to the accepted formality of the workplace, but her tone spoke otherwise.
"Do you like my ass, Sir?" she questioned, taking her boldness to a new level. "Sometimes I imagine you're watching me as I leave your office...watching my ass. Do you like it?"
"Of course!" he asserted, running his fingers between the fullness of her thighs. "You're a fine piece...you have a fine ass, My Dear. What's not to like?"
She grasped the edge of the desk, her breathing becoming labored and thighs shaking at his touch. Then, placing one stockinged foot atop his desk she began to carefully peel the patterned silk down her thighs and off the tips of her toes.
Her aroma grew stronger, more sensual as her body shifted and she brought her remaining foot to rest between his thighs, repeating the gesture, her toes nudging his burgeoning fullness.
She paused...an invitation?
The inadequate line of her panties appeared binding then, on closer inspection. They seemed to beckon to him, like a dark arrow pointing from the waistband of her thong across her vulva to become lost in the moist slit below. He slid his fingers below the crotch and released them from her hidden confines, the slick wetness of her body still clinging to the lacy fabric.
She surged into his palm. "Oh...thank you, Sir," she breathed, pressing his hand against her pubis. "Thongs just aren't meant for comfort, I guess. They're always riding...up. That feels...much better."
The abandoned bands of her garter belt brushed insistently against his groin as she moved, the metal clips bobbing maddeningly against his fullness. She smiled.
"Are you like this...behind your desk, during the day?" she asked, her eyes taking in the tautness of his slacks. "Do you become aroused when I sit in the chair and cross my legs for you?"
Had she noticed him watching her then? He remained silent. What would she do next?
"Sometimes I wet my panties during the day, Sir", she offered boldly, her restraints abandoned. "When I'm sitting there, taking notes...I become so wet I'm surprised you haven't noticed! I always wonder if I've left a wet patch on the seat after I leave. Do I, Sir? Do I leave my mark on the furniture?"
He thought back to the many times he'd discretely glanced into the darkness between her thighs as she scribbled on her pad, the times the dim shadow of moisture had remained long after she'd retreated to her sanctuary in the outer office. Yes, he'd noticed. Of course he'd noticed!
"Like now, you mean?" he questioned intimately. "Were you wet like you are now?" he repeated, his index finger nudging beneath the wet lace.
She closed her eyes. "Yes...like that," she agreed. "Just like that, but then I could only imagine what it would be like, of course."
"And what do you imagine, My Dear? He prodded, his finger slipping into her wetness. "This?" he questioned as he pressed his digit deep inside.
Her knees shook visibly then, and she faltered against him.
"Yes...oh YES!" she choked, her hips rocking to urge him deeper...and deeper yet. "I imagine this...and us...and the feel of leather beneath me..."
Unsteadily she retired once more to the couch in an effort to prevent her total and shameful collapse. "I imagine you stripping my panties from me...here on the sofa," she offered heatedly. "That you ask me to touch myself for you."
Then, as if to punctuate her statement, she slipped her hand between her thighs and dipped a single finger into her vagina.
