"Sweetheart, when you do porn, never, ever, ever use your real name. Or something even close. Or tell people where you live. Let's just say that I like to read a little, from time to time."
I was cornered. I knew it. She had me stuffed and hung on the wall. This was my last day on the job. I might have some good savings, but not in this market. I was ready to beg for my job. Fifty percent pay cut. Yeah. Demotion. Yeah.
"So, you like to show, do you?" she asked. "Let's see."
I must have been staring, looking at the car coming down the road at me. I'd seen the eyes too many times from the car, now I was the white tail looking at the pickup.
"Won't be much," she said. "And it's a one time deal. Yeah, I like girls as well as boys, but I won't have anyone from work. That's a sure way out. But a little visual will help my reading."
I was still baffled. Then she said "Take it off, let's see what your talking about showing." With that, I dropped my purse and coat. I knew what she wanted. My mind was more than a little fuzzy, but even THAT I could figure out.
"Okay," was all I could mumble, as I reached up for the top button. I unbuttoned my polo shirt and then looked at her. She nodded, smiled and flicked a finger up. I pulled the shirt out of my jeans and pulled it up and over my head and put in on the side chair. She looked at me. Oh well, here it goes, again. I don't know why I hadn't delayed the inevitable by doing it first, but now I sat down (on my shirt, of course) and tugged off my boots and socks. I unhooked the belt on my jeans and pulled down the zipper, then stood up and pulled them down to my ankles and awkwardly stepped out of them. I now stood in front of my boss in my teal French cut panties and beige bra. Nothing fancy, this was work, not a hot date. Well, now came the toughie. I reached behind and unhooked the bra. Didn't even bother, I just let it drop to the floor on my pants. Then came the final step. I unceremoniously pulled pulled my panties down until they slid to my feet on their own, then stepped out of them.
I could feel Liz looking at me. I looked at her.
"Not bad," she commented. "Pretty much the way you described yourself. Actually, a little better. You shouldn't be so hard on yourself. Some women look good shaved, but your pussy looks very nice with that hair. It's just right."
I'm sure I blushed now. The only time I'd heard anyone refer to my vagina as a pussy was before we were going to have sex, or at least before he thought we were.
"Turn around, slowly," she said, half request, half order. Snapped me out of my thoughts. I turned around, taking about 30 seconds or a couple of hours. When I finished, I was looking at her again. "Okay, kiddo," she said. "One time thing, this never happened, it will never happen again. I will hang nothing over you, you have no need to be concerned about your writings affecting how I view your job performance. In fact," she smiled, with maybe a little giggle in her eyes, "you can write about this. I'd like that. But," she said, and stopped. I knew what "but" meant.
Liz is not her real name. That's the "but".
