Ms. Brennan was the most peculiar combination of frigid ice queen and shameless cocktease Andy had ever met in his life.
On the one hand, she wore the shortest little skirts and the tallest high heels (the kind that drove Andy crazy, with the thin straps around the ankles) to the bank each and every day, always left the top three buttons of her tight blouse open to reveal plenty of deep, creamy cleavage, and fastidiously kept her make-up and long, dark hair as perfect as a Playboy Playmate ready to step in front of a photographer's camera.
Worse still, she had no qualms about leaning across his desk while he worked to issue him orders, letting those ample tits hang down in front his face, or bending over at the waist to retrieve something from a low shelf or drawer, so that the thin fabric of that skintight, microscopic skirt rode as high up on her delicious rump as physically possible without exposing the panties whose lines were always so clearly defined beneath. In fact, being the senior manager and the only member of the staff with keys to the branch office, she made a big show every morning of being the last to arrive at work, so all of the employees standing out front waiting to get in could get a good view of her bending over and retrieving her briefcase and purse from her car's backseat.
On the other hand, all of these wanton displays of shameless lasciviousness were accompanied by an aloofness and purposeful distance that bordered on snobbery. When she spoke to her employees, she was curt to the point of condescension, her tone as warm as a February evening in northern Alaska. For all her willingness to expose copious amounts of luscious, alabaster flesh to her subordinates, she rarely ever looked on in the eye, or gave even the slightest verbal indication that she had any interest in them as co-workers or fellow human beings. It was as if she deeply resented having to share her work day with such lowly beings, and only showed off so much of her fantastic body because she felt it was an effective way of getting a little extra effort out of them.
For Andy, days at the bank were excruciating, his poor cock as hard as granite and straining painfully and continuously against his slacks from 8 to 4, without respite.
Like all of the other men (and a few of the women) at the branch, he'd tried warming up to his comely boss, hoping against hope that the upper crust of ice would melt away and he could get a crack at the soft, warm stuff underneath. When his efforts failed just as utterly as those of his co-workers, he'd taken to spending his coffee breaks and lunch hour in a bathroom stall, furiously pumping his beleaguered cock to climax. Unfortunately, no matter how often or thoroughly he relieved the agonizing tension in his bloated balls, the moment he returned to his desk and tried to resume his work, he'd spy Ms. Brennan climbing a step stool to retrieve something off a high shelf or absently fingering her nipple through her blouse as she combed through reports and his aching hard-on would return with a vengeance.
It eventually reached a point where even the savage fucking he'd take home to his unknowing (and uncomplaining!) girlfriend Allison each night was not enough to quench his maddening lust for his insanely hot yet cruelly cold supervisor. He started having dreams about her, feverish night flights in which she'd call him into her office for a performance review, which she would inexplicably conduct while greedily fellating a huge, dripping grape popsicle or furiously working out both flickering wrists with flesh-colored Shake Weights. Sometimes in the dreams, she wore her everyday form-fitting business attire. Others, she was clad in a black bikini, or nothing at all save the ankle-strapped stilettos. On one particularly restless evening, following a date in which he and Allison watched a Harry Potter movie on Blu-Ray, the dream version of Ms. Brennan came clad in the accoutrement of a naughty English schoolgirl, oiling up a very thick, curved wooden wand with both hands as she read his evaluation. Andy had to fuck Allison twice the next morning before heading off to the bank, yet still found himself nursing another debilitating boner by 8:15.
The breaking point for poor Andy came in the sixth month of his employment as the bank's Junior Accounts Representative. Following a particularly difficult day during which Ms. Brennan repeatedly demonstrated a sudden, voracious affinity for bananas, he feigned sick and left work early to hurry home to the sweet, if temporary, relief of his girlfriend's tender pussy.
Unfortunately, he arrived to find the guy from the apartment down the hall already enthusiastically availing himself of that warm, wet orifice and its ball-draining benevolence, opening the front door to find dear, sweet Allison on all fours on the living room floor, getting fucked so hard from behind that there were tears streaming down her flushed cheeks and praises worthy of a Southern Baptist revival spilling from her whore mouth. So enraptured was his beloved by the thick dick plunging in and out of her cheating twat that she didn't even hear the door open.
Andy couldn't even speak at that moment. He simply turned in a stunned daze and shuffled back down the hall, leaving the door to their apartment open so anyone who walked by would have a clear, unobstructed view of the girl he loved gleefully milking the jizz out of someone else's cock with her dirty little cunt.
Distraught, he climbed back into his car and reflexively drove back to the bank, never entirely aware of where he was going or why, and nearly causing two major collisions on the way. The branch was, of course, deserted when he arrived, so he just sat there in his car, replaying the gut-wrenching scene in his mind over and over again for hours.
When grief and disbelief gave way to anger, he called Allison and told her, in these exact words, "Go fuck yourself, you filthy goddamn slut!" Then he hung up the phone and headed to a bar across the street, where he proceeded to order one rum and Coke after another until last call. As he pounded back each successive drink, the world became fuzzier and more surreal. At several points during the binge, however, he found himself surprised by the fact that no matter how angry and hurt he was over Allison's despicable betrayal, he couldn't fully push thoughts of Ms. Brennan and her delectable body out of his inebriated mind.
Andy drank until Last Call, then convinced the bartender to sell him a bottle to take with him. He staggered out into the chilly night and returned to his car, where he sat drinking the cheap rum until he passed out, visions of his brunette boss' mouth-watering backside and long, lovely legs swirling around in his head.
A loud knock on the window jarred him from a fantastic dream about Ms. Brennan cleaning the brass trim around the teller's stations with her tongue. He sat bolt upright, peering out through bleary, bloodshot eyes to see Trey, one of the tellers, smiling in at him.
"Wake up, buddy," Trey's muffled voice came smugly through the glass. "Time to make the donuts!"
As the laughing teller returned to the gaggle of employees waiting outside the locked double doors, Andy realized that it was morning. He'd spent the whole night in his car, and now had just minutes to collect himself before his shift began! The thought pulled him the rest of the way out of his alcohol-enhanced slumber, adrenaline racing into his veins, his heart kicking into overdrive. Though he was still quite inebriated from the night's bender, he could not afford to lose his job less than one day after losing his girlfriend.
