Your boss has been flirting more today than usual. As he walked by your desk on the way back to his office after lunch, he gently laid his hand on your shoulder and said quietly "Maybe we can find some time later for you to show me those legal briefs."
"Yes, sir," was all you had replied, trying to look shy as you found a wetness begin to spread between your legs. You were the paralegal and he a junior partner at the medium-sized law firm... and over the past few weeks you had noticed him begin to look down your blouse more often while he asked you to look for a file, which had led to your going bra-less yesterday. When a pup-tent immediately formed in his suit pants once he realized it was only you underneath your silky button-down, you knew that you would have to have him, and soon.
As afternoon turned to evening, and as everyone else poured out of work for their drives home, it was only you and he left in the entire office. It had been several hours since the "legal briefs" comment, and although you were staying "to work on an important case" (as you told some colleagues) what kept you there was not the document open on the computer in front of you. No, what had been on your mind all afternoon was how disappointed your boss had looked when his down-blouse scan today had found a bra, which confirmed for you how badly he wanted to see your tits. And you know now that it wasn't in an all-guys-want-to-see-tits sort of way, it's more a bend-you-over-his-desk-and-fuck-you-royally sort of way. To say that your "legal briefs" were completely soaked (dried, and then soaked again) would be a horrible understatement.
Suddenly the intercom on your desk beeped. "Ms. Babson, would you come in here, please?" Normally he would have just opened his office door, which was right behind you, and called out for what he needed. Clearly, his mind was elsewhere, too.
His voice had broken your reverie, but it spurred you to action. You stood up and grabbed some file from your desk; it didn't matter which file, just something in your hands to throw away as you stormed across his office and threw yourself on top of him. But then you stopped for a moment--you knew exactly what you should have in your hands. After all, he had asked exactly for that item earlier in the day.
You looked down at your business suit. A sensible-but-fitted black skirt and matching jacket, dark stockings, and a dark blue blouse, complimented by a pair of three-inch black heels. You looked hot and you knew it. He had definitely appreciated the outfit earlier (except for the bra--which was also black).
You shrugged out of the jacket and let it fall to the floor behind your chair. You quickly unzipped the skirt, letting fall to your feet before stepping out of it. Stepping out of your shoes, you pulled the stockings down and off (you think you ripped them but you didn't really care then). You pulled off your blouse and it quickly joined the pile at your feet. For a second you froze--standing in the middle of the office in just your bra and panties you felt foolish... what if he spurned your advance? But you were pretty sure he wouldn't--he was not married and clearly into you. An instant later you unhooked your bra, dropped it from the end of your arms, and suddenly you were topless in the office you shared with all these people during the day.
The feeling was wonderful--you could almost imagine the looks on your coworkers' faces as they saw your tits hanging out--your puffy pink nipples now hard as rocks--and your little black thong the only thing between you and total nudity. You quickly rectified that situation as well: You put your thumbs in the waistband of your panties and shoved them to the floor. As you stepped out of them you stepped back into your heels. 'Gotta look professional,' you lustily thought, 'and when a girl goes to see her boss wearing heels is a sign of a good professional.' Now completely and totally nude (except for the heels), you bent over to retrieve your panties from the floor, keeping your legs locked; in your mind, you loved the fact that if there was someone behind you they'd be able to see not just your bare-ass but now your pussy lips as well as all the drippings running down your legs. At that moment you were so turned-on that you were wishing the whole office was there (rather than only you and your boss), so the men could all develop pup-tents and so the women could be incredibly jealous of your hot nude body.
While bent over you pushed the pile of clothes under your desk and next to your bag. Now, with only your thong in your right-hand, you took a step towards his closed door. Your strip-tease had taken less than thirty seconds. Your pussy was throbbing and your heart was in your chest. You knocked on his door, first softly and then aggressively.
"Come in," came the response through the door.
You threw back your shoulders to accentuate your C-cups. You quickly looked down to your flat stomach and the small landing strip you had trimmed only this morning. With your left-hand you reached down, turned the knob, and began to swing the door open.
Although you were preparing for some big reaction, he was sitting with his back to the door (looking out the window), so you quickly stepped through the threshold and closed the door behind you. You leaned back against it (the oak feeling cold against your bare-ass), and purred, in the sexiest voice you had "I brought you those legal briefs we had discussed earlier, sir." You dangled your thong from the end of your arm.
He turned from the window and froze in place. His jaw literally dropped. He took you in with a look, and then kept looking, moving from your face to your tits to your pussy and then back. He barely moved. The silence was killing you but you refused to say anything else; you just positioned yourself so he could most appreciate the view you were offering him.
Finally, he spoke. "You are the single sexiest thing I have ever seen in my entire life."
That was what you'd been waiting for. You dropped the thong by the door and walked over to him, trying to sashay a little. You made your way around his desk as he pushed his chair back; however, you jumped on to his lap before he had a chance to begin to stand-up. In an instant your mouth was on his and his hands were roaming all over your bare back; not happy there they dropped down and began to cup your ass-cheeks. You were now straddling him--at first his suit pants had felt weird against your bare snatch but now you noticed the seam near his zipper was perfectly positioned and rubbing against your clit obscenely. His mouth tasted wonderful as you gently nibbled on his tongue.
Your tits were mashed against his white suit shirt; again, the material felt strange against your bare nipples, but you loved the contrast. He leaned back and attempted to undo his tie, but you stopped his hands with one of your own.
"No, sir," you said, breathing hard, "you're staying dressed. I'll take him out when I want to play with him, but for now I'm your nude assistant. I want to get dressed so badly but my horrible boss is making me work naked." You looked him in the eyes, your arms wrapped around his neck and your pussy dripping on his suit pants. "Don't you agree?" you asked gently.
"Yes, Ms. Babson," he sighed, trying to think clearly, "a good assistant spends her day exposed for her boss's viewing pleasure. Though, I seem to remember a time earlier when you had covered yourself up. That's a no-no." He reached around you and pushed his keyboard back; swinging his left arm he knocked several folders on to the floor. He grabbed your hips and lifted you on until you were sitting on the edge of the desk, the glass surface immediately feeling sticky under your dripping wet snatch.
He looked at your face sternly. "That kind of behavior will result in forty lashes," he exclaimed. With that he reached forward and grabbed your hips, pulling you forward so that your pussy hung off the edge of his desk. He reached his face down until he was in between your legs, his nose buried in your crotch. When he had said 'lashes' you had expected a spanking but now you realized what he wanted.
