The Boss of You

I'm conflicted.

I'm the boss and it's wrong. But watching you out there, every day, is difficult.

We started at the same time, rose through the ranks together, confided in each other, and cried on each other's shoulders when each of our marriages fell apart. It's purely a fluke that I got the promotion; we both know the owner is a complete prick and more likely to promote the less qualified man over the more capable woman. And you are more than capable. In fact, I admire your demeanor and skills at this stupid job.

Downsizing has left us nearly alone in this branch. An always absent part time administrative assistant and two warehouse guys are all that's left of our once thriving location. I can't help but still think of you as my equal, if not my better. And being here alone so often has been the catalyst that has stirred my emotions; making me consider throwing logic and propriety out the window.

I know it's crossed your mind as well. Remember? You've told me what moves you; what things you enjoy. And the only thing stopping me from filling that void in your life is a stupid promotion. The only thing stopping me from filling that void in my life is how you might react to the sordid cliché of a boss seducing an employee.

But today, you're wearing that skirt. You know; the shorter-than-the-rest one? Is it just me, or are you wearing a higher heel than your normal kitten heels? If memory serves, your outfit gets better on days that the admin isn't here. Watching you on the phone, your pretty lips give instructions to a customer and I watch, wondering what you are saying. Through the office windows, I see your long black hair bounce around your head as you move about the office returning files, making copies, and writing up proposals.

And your mood, oh my, your mood; you've been so pleasant if not downright...chipper. Your enthusiasm is infectious and leaves everyone who comes in contact with you happier for the rest of the day. I'd give you a raise just for that if I was allowed to do it.

That's it; I must act. And now.

"Can you come in here?"

In front of my desk, your questioning eyes pair with your always smiling mouth and it's difficult for me to say what I'm going to. All the air seems to have been sucked out of the room. A small clock on my desk throws minutes into the room and I finally summon the courage to say it.

"I, uh, want something from you that is outside of your job description."

Your smile brightens a little; perhaps you've considered it too? I am emboldened.

"Turn around." There, I said it. There is no turning back now. It's either going to be a hard slap on the face followed by a humiliating lawsuit or a slice of heaven on earth. My heartbeat must be loud enough to drown out the clock.

Longest...moment...ever. Hard eyes meet mine and I fear it is over. Goodbye job, goodbye you. But there is a softening of your eyes and I swear I see you fighting to hide a smile.

The stillness is broken by the slowest half pirouette ever. Facing away from me, it's like you know what I want. You bend at the waist and now I feel like you are inviting me, if not challenging me to take what I want. Your hands are on the arms of the office chair in front of my desk and I can see a little higher up on the bare backs of your thighs as the skirt rises in back.

I move behind. Dare I?

Impulse and desire win and my hands slowly lift the skirt up and lay it gently on your back above your waist. A blue thong bisects the two cheeks of your bottom. I remember with clarity what you've told me about this fantasy. All I want is to do every one of those things for you.

A light slap on the right cheek followed by a harder one to the left makes you jump; neither of us truly expected this would ever happen. I let the sound linger in the still office air. A pink glow appears on both round cheeks. Two more before I can change my mind and you let out a low moan; I know I'm on the right track. Perhaps I will not regret this after all.

A rough hand cups the small bulge of the crotch of your thong. I know that I've got your entire sex in the palm of my hand and I grope it, kneading and needing this. It is both moist and slightly plump, hopefully from excitement at what I'm doing. I am excited too.

As I play with you through the thin fabric, I admire the sight before me; your round butt, your lovely legs, your "slightly too sexy for work" heels. And I think of the things you've told me you like in this position.

And again, I'm conflicted.

I'm not interested in hitting you. You're too nice to hit and I hope I'm too nice to follow through with the light discipline that you say you like. And a different thought strikes me; wouldn't it be a form of "discipline" for me to deny you the physical sensation that you want? I mean, hey, if I'm the boss of you, I get to do what I want, not what you want.

And I will do what I want.

I kneel behind you and in one decisive move, peel the thong down your legs until it is a pool of blue lace at your pumps. Still bent over the desk, you tense a little, expecting more strikes. They are not coming. Not from me. I grab a cheek in each hand--roughly enough that I hope it will do for you for now—and spread them up and out from each other, exposing you, leaving you vulnerable to my tongue.

And I am no longer conflicted.