The Secretarys Lunch Break

"Do you want me to take my clothes off?" she asks.

"Yes," he replies, reclining back in the big leather chair.

She nods, but looks past him, staring out across the grey panorama of the city beyond the window. She allows herself a thin smile as she reaches for the top button of her blouse. She runs her fingers down her front, deftly popping each of the buttons in turn. When she's gone all the way, she parts and closes the blouse a couple of times, playing peek-a-boo as he grins his approval. She performs a dainty pirouette. Her skirt swirls upwards, and she drops her arms to her sides to hold it down. As she does so, she thrusts back her shoulders, and her blouse slips off her shoulders and down her arms. She lets it fall but deftly snares it with the toe of her shoe and kicks it towards him. He catches it, sniffs its perfume, and drops it casually onto the carpet beside his chair.

"Don't stop," he says.

She unfastens the clasp on her skirt and draws the zip downwards. She swivels her hips and the skirt slumps around her feet. She steps out of it. With a graceful curtsy and a sweep of her arm, she fetches it up and tosses it to him. He dumps it onto the crumpled heap of her blouse.

"Keep going," he commands.

She lifts one foot until just the tip of the stiletto touches the floor. She levers the shoe off and pushes it to the side with her toes. She does the same with the other. She leans forward, placing her hands on her knees but keeping her head raised and her eyes level with his, though not connecting. She hesitates for a few seconds, not wavering but letting the tension build. Then she straightens her body and lifts her shoulders, gliding her hands up her thighs until her fingers reach the tops of her stockings. She fondles the tiny white bows on the suspenders. (She prefers pantyhose but wears sheer stockings and a garter belt in the office. She knows how much that pleases him.)

He says nothing but licks his lips.

She unties each of the bows, subtly swaying to the silent rhythm of the music playing in her head. She feels the light pressure on her thighs ease as the stockings lose their support. She peels the right one leisurely down her leg, all the way to her ankles, as she bends her body until her hair sweeps frontward in a golden cascade. She steps toward him until she's standing almost over him. She kicks up her foot to rest the heel in his lap. Surprised by her sudden move, he frowns. She giggles, and wiggles her toes, before he snatches off the stocking and casts it down. He caresses her slim calf and slender ankle. She is proud of her legs. She keeps in shape and likes to show off. He likes it too.

She lifts the other foot and he rolls the stocking all the way. She shivers as his fingers creep down her leg. When he has taken both of her stockings, she moves in even closer, until he can reach out and release the little hooks on her garter belt. The stretch fabric recoils and the unshackled girdle bounces onto the floor behind her. She shivers again as he runs his fingertips slowly over her thighs, tickling the insides with his manicured nails.

He looks up at her but does not speak. She reaches behind her back to unfasten her brassiere. She slips the straps off her shoulders but does not pull the bra away, letting the cups hang for a moment on her breasts. He wrenches it from her chest. He twirls it like it's a trophy, before discarding it with the rest of her garments.

She is panting, softly but deeply, from the feelings welling up within her. She is near enough to him to rest her hands on his broad shoulders. She feels the texture of his jacket. It is sleek, fine-tailored and expensive.

He slides his hands down her belly, to rest on her hips. He begins to play with her panties, crimpling the lace, stretching the elastic. He slips his fingers into the front, into her. She gasps. He slides them around to her hips and abruptly plucks the pants away. The sudden sharp tug jerks her body and she recoils, but his hands have moved round behind her, grabbing her backside. He squeezes the flesh so hard that she only just manages to stifle a yelp as he pulls her in close to him. As she topples forward, he lets go of her rear end and seizes her shoulders, forcing her down until she is sprawled on her stomach across his lap. The twilled fabric of his trousers is tickly on her naked loins; the cool, slick leather of the chair's arm is queerly sensual against her breasts. He tenderly strokes her hair. He caresses the bare skin of her back and shoulders. He explores the recesses of her womanhood. She shivers again and shudders. Her breathing quickens as she feels the tell-tale tingling within her.

He gently taps her on the elbows and, knowing what he wants of her, she puts her hands behind her back, crossing her wrists. He begins to wrap something around them, and it is not until he has pulled the knot tight that she realizes what he's using to bind her arms. It is her bra. She hopes the fine lacework will not be ruined. The lunch break has already cost her a good pair of knickers.

She feels his fingers at her throat. He is merely untying her scarf, the last piece of clothing still on her; but he must have sensed her flinch, because he tenderly pats her head before placing the folded silk over her eyes. He brushes away a few errant strands of her hair made moist and sticky by the beads of perspiration on her brow, before securing the blindfold. She lies there, prostrate across his lap, in silence but for the grunts of pleasure and moans of bliss as he plays with her.

Then he takes hold of her shoulders once more, and lifts her body off his. She understands and raises herself to stand beside him. It is not an easy thing to do, with her hands bound behind her back, and he does not assist. The gentle stream of chilled air flows down from the ceiling vents and over her exposed flesh, raising up tiny goosebumps. The thick-pile carpet is voluptuous beneath her feet and between her toes. But hardly has she managed to gain her balance and stand erect when she feels herself being nudged forward. She shuffles carefully past his seat, until she feels the tops of her thighs in contact with the edge of the big oak desk.

Dreading what might be next, she starts to protest, but her words are smothered by a hand over her mouth. The faint pungent smell of stale nicotine makes her a little queasy. The other hand he plants under her backside, but she gets his message and climbs (slithers, really) onto the smooth, cold surface. It hasn't been cleared, and as she lies on her belly upon it, bits and pieces of desktop paraphernalia press into her skin.

He wraps something around her ankles, cinches and knots it... one of her stockings. He lifts her feet and brings them up to her backside. When she resists, trying to keep her legs straight (purely a reflex), he laughs at the futility and casually jabs the backs of her knees with his fingers, each time a little harder, until she complies. He uses her other stocking to bind her ankles to her wrists, leaving her helpless. She wants to twist and writhe in her bonds, to show her defiance, but the objects on the desk under her body gnaw into her unprotected flesh. She whimpers but no longer wriggles about. She lies still, savouring the delicious torment of her bonds.

Nothing more happens for a while. She can hear his breathing, above her own gasping breath and thumping heartbeat, but she cannot see what he's up to. She guesses that he is standing back, studying her trussed and naked body, admiring his handiwork, considering what he'll do with her now. There's excitement and dismay in her, as she contemplates the possibilities.

She feels something lustrous being pressed against her lips. She parts them as he pushes in the torn remains of her panties. There is not enough material to fill her mouth, so it is not very effective as a gag. But suspecting what's coming next, she clenches her teeth into the thin, satin wad. She hears the sinisterly soft swishing sound of his belt being drawn from the loops on his trousers. He unhitches her wrists from her ankles to release her from her hog-tie. He clamps one hand between her shoulder blades to keep her from squirming too much. She trembles to the thrill of the leather strap browsing her buttocks.

The first stroke seems to come in slow motion, the way a dream unfolds... a faint "swish" and then a sickening "thwack". She feels a sharp sting, then an instant of numbness, then a searing, lingering pain. A red blur bleeds through the blackness behind her blindfold. She stifles a scream, biting down hard on her flimsy gag. The second whack is harder than the first, and the pain is much worse. After the third her tears flow, seeping through the silk binding. More follow and she wants to howl for mercy. She stays proudly silent.

"Stand up now," he orders.

His voice is milder now... kinder. He runs a hand along her shoulders and down her back, coming to rest on the throbbing welts that criss-cross her quivering derrière. He gently massages the tortured flesh. He unties her ankles and removes her blindfold. Through the spare tears of bittersweet joy, she blinks back the jovial glare of the early afternoon sun peering at them through the windowpane.

They stand for a while facing each other. Only their heavy breathing breaks the silence. His lustful gaze courses the length of her body, exploring each curve and crevice. He replaces his belt, straightens his tie, smooths a crease out of his crisp white shirt, adjusts his jacket, brushes his trousers. Without her blindfold, she feels doubly nude.

He takes his seat in the leather chair and she knows what he wants of her. She spits out her panties and kneels before him, eyes downcast as he opens the zipper on his trousers. She averts her gaze, as if it would dishonour him to look upon his naked manhood. She feels it, warm and moist, on her lips. She licks the end, rolls her tongue over and around the shaft before closing her mouth over it. She feels his body stiffen, and as he reaches his climax she instinctively starts to pull away. She wishes she could grab onto his hips, or the arms of the chair, to hold herself close to him, but her arms are bound behind her. He places his on the back of her head, gently but firmly clenching fistfuls of her hair to keep her joined with him.

He groans with the pleasure of release, and then he taps her lightly on the shoulders. She removes herself from him and stands upright, licking her lips. They have the taste of salt, of semen and sweat. He has drawn his knees together, so she straddles them, lowering herself onto his lap. She shifts position ever so slightly until she feels his penis teasing her fleshy folds. She begins to move, slowly, rhythmically, back and forward, massaging his erection against her tender flesh, inviting him to enter her. He holds back, the ecstasy of arousal and the agony of denial ripping at her insides. His hands are on her bosom, squeezing and kneading and pinching. He draws her closer, wrapping his mouth around each breast in turn, teasing her nipples with his tongue and teeth.

The excitement wells inside her. He makes a surprised sound as she presses her lips tightly against his. She lets herself down, onto him, and his penis slides inside her. He's buried deep within her. She begins to raise and lower herself, picking up momentum and intensity as they reach climax together. She moans as he groans, and she feels the sudden gush inside her. She gasps and whimpers.

Exhausted she falls backward, still in his lap, him still inside her, propping herself with her hands, still bound behind her back, on his knees. She feels flushed and her skin tingles with a film of perspiration. Her breathing is harsh and rapid. He whisks the sweat-moistened hair from her forehead, and tenderly strokes her heaving breasts.

He orders her to stand and to face away from him. She starts to bend forward.

"No," he whispers, "the lunch break is almost over. The rest of the staff must be back by now."

She sighs.

He frees her arms and feet. She gathers up her clothes and arranges them on the desk. She puts on her bra, garter belt and stockings, and mourns the loss of her knickers. She scrunches them up into a little sodden ball, finds her purse and crumples them inside. She regrets not putting in a spare pair this morning, and that she's worn such a short skirt today.

"Oh well," she thinks, as she slowly massages her inflamed rear end, "I won't be sitting much this afternoon."

She hitches her skirt, flattens out the wrinkles as best she can, and buttons her blouse. She fumbles. Her hands twitch and her fingers tremble. She's light-headed and wobbly; her skin is pink and clammy. She feels like when she's run the marathon. She looks at him. He's never run a marathon, she muses. He's handsome, but slightly flabby... the word "flaccid" has crossed her mind and she smiles, because she knows he's not that.

He stares back at her, quizzically, as she secures the last of the buttons. He's wondering what she's thinking.

"So it's back to work," she says, combing the chaos out of her hair. Her mouth is still cottony, and the words come out a little slurred.

"Yes," he replies.

She sorts and arranges the stuff on her desk.

"Don't forget to check my appointments," she says.

"No, ma'am."

"And remember, I need those reports by the end of today."

"Yes, ma'am."

THE END