Author's note
: This story is a re-imagining of a story I previously posted on this site under a different alias. All comments and suggestions are greatly appreciated.
"Danielle, in my office please," I say, calling out to her across the house. Although she's busy with the kids, she excuses herself to join me, picking up on the note of seriousness in my voice.
I watch as she draws near, taking in the way her hips move beneath the short denim skirt before shifting my focus to her breasts. Her white blouse is unbuttoned just enough to show off a small piece of her impressive cleavage, and a pearl necklace that I know is there for more than adornment. Honestly the woman is so top heavy that it's a wonder that she doesn't need to have bamboo poles attached to her sides, like a tomato sapling forever in danger of toppling over.
"Children, I need to speak with Ms. Danielle in private," I announce to the surly teenagers we work with in my firmest daddy voice. "We aren't to be disturbed under any circumstances. Understand?"
They shake their heads yes and go back to what they're doing, largely uninterested in the comings and goings of us boring grown folk.
She catches my eye as she moves past me on her way to the office. She's only been with us a few months, and I've done what I can since that time to try not to pay her too much attention – one more broke and starving man who takes no pleasure in staring in the windows of upscale restaurants.
But damned if it isn't a chore.
Even the conservative outfits she wore early in the spring when she started could do little to hide the miracle of a body that was clearly built for sex. And despite myself, I waited for summer, biding my time and praying for record temperatures on the days on which we're scheduled to work together. My patience pays off as her outfits become increasingly more revealing, cleavage levels rising like water above her shirt top as July moves into August. Before long she's showing up in tops with plunging necklines, skirts that show off the sexiness of her legs.
When she leans in over the desk, I can't help but steal peeks, noting the sideswells of her breasts held snuggly inside a pink or white bra, lightly tanned and firmly encased, looking soft enough to rest your head, and yet perky enough to keep a man afloat for a lifetime.
And it's not only her body. She's bright and ambitious, quick-witted, catching me off-guard time and time again just when I think I have her pegged. Moreover she's cultured, having grown up privileged in Mexico, blood-linked to that noble culture south of the border. Her family's income is a dark source of much speculation, but frankly it's of little interest to me, and likely won't be unless and until someone from the Mexican Mafia comes knocking at my door. When I hear her speaking Spanish to the children or on the phone, it makes me groan to myself, wondering if that's the tongue she reverts to when she's in the throes of passion – so many muffled dios mios's as she claws at the bed sheets and shudders.
Truthfully she's light years out of my league, my prospects hindered further by an age gap of a decade and a fiancé, the announcement of her engagement causing me to groan when I overhear the rest of the staff discussing it. The thought of her lost to us mere mortals for all time is simply unbearable to me.
But out of my league or not, the flirting between us has been going on for weeks now, surprising me at first when she plays along with a risqué text I send her way as I'm passing a Victoria's Secret, jokingly asking her if she'd like me to pick her up some panties. When she tells me 'size small', I request that she provide me with her bra size in case I happen across any promising ensembles. She says I'm out of luck though, telling me that she needs to special order her bras because her cups are so large in relation to her frame. The information has my dick shifting around in the confines of my underwear; though likely it's a nuisance and a disappointment to her that she can't wear that particular brand of bra.
That brief exchange seems to trip some switch between us and the texts become increasingly flirtatious. Before long they've become a regular feature of our days together, heating up and becoming increasingly graphic. She plays along when I describe in great detail all the things I'd like to do to her, surprising and paining me when she tells that no one has
ever
spoken to her like that. It's to the point that my cock swells every time a message comes through bearing her name, the mere sound of the alert ballooning me even before I've read the words.
I suspect we're on a crash course, our bodies destined to collide in the end, smacking wetly against one another. Every look shared carries layers of meaning, every comment drips with implication. She makes it a point to brush up against me as she passes me in the office now, the weight and fullness of a breast rubbing against my arm, a thigh sliding across my crotch. The contact makes me groan out loud, and I have to play it off as some difficult work task I've just noticed still needs doing. We want to fuck one another. Pure and simple, hard and dirty. When she's near, the flat surfaces around us take on a whole new dimension in my mind. I can picture myself taking her on the desk, and in the chair. I dream of eating her out on the couch and on the floor, my tongue running over and over her white-hot clit. I imagine bending her over the kitchen counter and slapping her ass with my dick before driving it home.
Or perhaps we're not.
She's made it clear from the very beginning that it's only an innocent diversion, a sexy something or other to help get us through the tediousness of the workday. Our little game she calls it, reminding me as necessary that it will lead nowhere. I tell her I understand, knowing she believes she holds all the cards, choosing to let her continue believing it.
"Ms. Getty," I begin and then pause, closing the door and locking it as I invite her to take a seat. "This is somewhat awkward, so I'll simply throw it out there...It's been brought to my attention that on a number of different occasions since starting here you have been in gross violation of Mercy Mission's dress code."
"Oh really," she says, picking up on the game immediately and doing her best not to smile. "And may I ask who it was that lodged the complaint?"
"No you may not," I say. "That is privileged information. And wipe that smirk off your face young lady. This is no laughing matter."
"Yes sir," she tells me, putting on her serious look. "It's just that I'm not quite sure I know what you mean."
"Well...take that skirt for example," I say, reaching out to take the employee handbook down from the bookshelf, opening it at random and tapping a finger on the page. "It states here very clearly that all skirts must reach below the fingertips,
and
that the hem must not extend higher than ten inches above the knee..."
"May I see that sir?"
"No. There's no need. I've memorized the regulations from cover to cover," I tell her, snapping the binder shut and returning it to the shelf. "Does that skirt you have on comply with these standards Ms. Getty?"
"Honestly I don't know," she admits, blushing prettily, unable to meet my eyes.
I take a moment to ponder the matter over.
"Well in that case we have no choice but to measure. I'm sorry, but it's part of my job you understand."
She nods as I root through the desk drawer, coming up with a long metallic ruler. Holding it on end, I come around the desk and approach her, watching as it bobs up and down, almost phallic in its motions.
"Just relax Ms. Getty," I say, laying my hand on her shoulder and trying to give her a reassuring look. "First we'll try the fingertip test."
She nods, clearly nervous at the prospect.
"That's right, stand up straight. No slouching allowed."
She does so, her tits going forward, seemingly in invitation for me to latch onto with my lips.
I take my time, letting my eyes run deliberately down her body, lingering on her lovely cleavage, and then her stomach where it runs down beneath the waistband of the offending skirt.
I can see that she's straining, willing her arms to be longer in order to cover the required ground. I want to root for her, but I'm here to do a job and I have to remain impartial.
Already I can see that it's going to be close.
"Hmm..." I say, dropping to my knees in front of her and smelling her perfume. She's looking down at me now over the swell of her breasts. They rise and fall with each breath she takes. This is what the word temptation was invented for, I think.
"Too close to call," I decide. "We'll have to measure."
She groans a bit when I say it, but immediately forgoes any ideas she may have had of protesting when she catches the stern look in my eyes.
"Turn around," I tell her, the sternness in my voice now as well. I watch as she pivots in place, her ass coming into view directly in front of my face.
"Perfect," I say, knowing she'll pick up on the double entendre. "Spread your legs a little please."
"But sir, won't that make my skirt ride up even higher?" she asks me, her voice full of concern.
"Infinitesimally," I say. "Besides, there are specific measuring guidelines to follow. Let's not waste time shall we?"
Reluctantly she shifts her feet a bit until they're in line with her hips.
"There now," I say, readying the ruler. "That wasn't so hard now was it?"
"I guess not sir."
I'm so close I can see how the muscles of her toned legs twitch as she struggles to stand still. I chance a look at the door, but all is quiet and I'm happy to have thought to close the curtains in the window that looks out on the common areas.
I place the ruler against her thigh, laying it flat and using my hand to keep it there, enjoying the way her skin feels beneath my fingertips.
"Oh, it's cold sir."
"Can't be helped," I tell her, before taking pity and breathing on it to warm the metal slightly.
As I slide the ruler up her leg, I intentionally catch it on the hem of her skirt, lifting it higher. She feels the material sliding against her thigh and reaches down to stop it before it's too late. She's not quick enough to keep me from seeing the fetching swell of her tight little ass cheek though.
"Whoops," I say.
I get the ruler back in place, but instead of sliding it up over the outside of her skirt, I make sure it runs underneath, up along her inner thigh.
"Sir?" she begins. "I think..."
"Hush," I tell her. "I need to concentrate."
I have to get the very edge of the ruler up against her knee. Although I've only just now made up the guidelines, already they've have taken on an aura of authenticity in my mind. The ruler's so long however that it comes up an inch short, finding some resistance beneath that skirt.
