My name is Ben Wilson. I worked for a prominent investment firm. My department consisted of twenty women typists. Naturally, only men were managers. This was before computers when everything was entered manually.
We hired girls right out of high school, so most girls were eighteen or nineteen. There were always vacancies caused by someone getting married, pregnant, or both. So we were always hiring; it was a dream come true for leg lovers like me.
I got a promotion that included interviewing applicants, but the best part was that I got a private office.
Before, I sat at a desk at the head of the room. The view from there was spectacular: a sea of nylon-covered legs with garter clasps exposed. However, a private office had more possibilities, especially for innocent groping. We could do what we wanted, and by we, I mean red-blooded males.
The sixties were a great time for leg lovers. When women entered the workplace, there was still a feeling of innocence. However, styles were changing rapidly. Hemlines rose above the knees, and pantyhose was not readily available.
The girls who were hired were excited about getting dressed up for work—the sound of high heels clicking on the solid flooring filled the air. Most wore skirts and blouses, and some older women wore dresses. When I say old, I mean twenty-six or thereabouts.
But they all had the same problem when walking: the hems rode up, exposing the first of the two darker bands of their stocking tops.
For instance, this morning, I was getting out of my car when one of the typists, Tammy, I think her name was, pulled in next to me. Without being too obvious, I glanced into her car. She was twisting up to the mirror, putting on lipstick, which hiked her skirt up practically to her waist.
Her cream-colored long-line panty girdle was completely exposed. I prefer garter belts on women, but this was fine with me. Her garter clasps were visible under the tight spandex material, holding her fully expanded stocking tops. As she slid out and tugged her skirt into place, she blushed and smiled at me; realizing what I had seen, she hurried into the building. The scalloped bottom of her underwear showed with every step she took.
I got a cup of coffee and walked through the office, acting like I was preoccupied with some papers in my hand. In reality, I was checking out the leg show at each desk. Without exception, every girl was typing away and either didn't know or cared that the tops of their stockings were showing. Most garter straps were white, with the occasional pale yellow or black.
The best time was during the morning break; they were all rushing to the cafeteria, where they could get their coffee and gossip.
The men from the other departments took a table near the entrance, and we waited for the steady stream of young women trying to walk quickly in high heels. They constantly tugged at their skirts to keep them from exposing their stockings and underwear. Then, we spent the rest of the break watching them sitting at the tables, providing a leg show of stocking tops and garters.
The best part was their innocence. They never caught on when men gave them tasks that would raise their skirts. For example, the hallway outside the office was on two levels. There were only six steps, but they needed to be replaced. The contractor was a friend of mine. Part of the job was to erect temporary steps while the others were replaced. He had an idea that I agreed to. He suggested making the temporary steps steeper, making the girls pull up their skirts higher to climb them.
You couldn't lose. If you were behind a girl; it was a great view with their skirts pulled tight over their asses, clearly showing their garter straps.
And if you were facing them, their dresses rode up with every step, exposing their legs.
He also suggested raising the shelves in my office, requiring the women to use a step ladder to reach them. He was a genius. And we used it to take advantage of the new girls. One boring afternoon, Fred, one of the salesmen, stopped by to talk. He commented,
"How do you get any work done? With all this ass walking around."
"Watch this," I smiled. "Karen, could you come here for a minute?"
Karen was a new hire, and God was she built; she wore a pink dress that couldn't be any tighter and dark stockings with heels she wasn't used to yet. But the best part was her tits, almost too big for her thin body, but I wasn't complaining.
"Karen, I was wondering if you could get the Simmons file. It's on the top shelf; you can use the stepladder."
She pushed the ladder under the file and carefully climbed to the top, her stockinged legs exposed to the bottom of her panties, her garter clasps tugging at her stocking tops.
"Make sure all the copies are in there."
She stayed there carefully checking the folder while we sat back and enjoyed the view.
She descended the ladder, tugging her dress back down. "Anything else? Mr. Wilson."
"Not now, Karen, but I'll call you if I do."
She wiggled her way out. I turned to Fred and said
"All this, and I get paid, too." We both laughed.
Something was always going on with the younger women—mostly boyfriend troubles. If I were younger, I definitely would have used my position to try and take advantage of them.
The problem is that I'm sixty-eight years old, a widower for five years now, and I used to get my thrills looking at them. But my frustration was building, and I thought this might be my last chance. I can't remember the last time I had gotten laid.
I had fantasies about most of them, but in particular, Toni.
She was an Italian girl with thick black hair, a beautiful face, full lips, and a kick-ass body. Her tits were full and round, and her shapely legs were perfect, especially in the sheer black stockings which she frequently wore.
The sad truth is that she was the kind of girl who, after marriage, would gain weight and balloon up. But for now, she was perfect jerk-off material.
If I had dictation, I always called on her, but I always checked to see what she was wearing first. Once, I called her in without checking, and I was treated to half an hour of a full skirt that came past her knees. I made sure not to make that mistake again.
I made it a point to have a bar-type stool at the side of my desk that she could perch on, and she probably knew why but never objected.
Today, I casually walked through the office, checking things out, especially Toni. Her top looked like it would pop the buttons of her straining blouse. She wore a black skirt that exposed her knees and just the first band of her stocking tops. She needed some dictation.
"Come to my office when you can. I have some letters that have to go out today."
She stood up, her tits bouncing.
"Right away, Mr. Wilson."
She walked ahead of me; I was mesmerized by her butt; even if she had on a panty girdle, it still was jiggling just right. She put her pad and pencil on my desk and hopped on the stool, her skirt riding up so both stocking tops were showing. She was in no hurry to pull it down, and even when she did, one of the darker bands remained exposed. The best part was that as she tried to get comfortable, the sound of her nylon-covered legs rubbing against each other drove me nuts.
It was one of the most significant benefits of the sixties, for me anyway,
There was no such thing as Human Resources watching over everything. Some girls realized what the men were doing but didn't dare say anything. They were sure no one would believe them, and they might lose their jobs. There was one guy who, before he retired, would sneak up behind one of the girls and snap their asses with a rubber band; the girls would squeal and laugh while rubbing their behinds. Nothing happened to him, and it was treated as a joke.
Toni was the perfect example, perched on the stool, her heels hooked on the rungs. She had to know I did it on purpose to get a look at her legs, but she didn't complain.
Jack, my counterpart in another department, just happened to stop by. He sat on the couch, making it a point to stare at Toni's legs, which were at eye level with him because of the stool.
She was clearly embarrassed, looking down at the floor. Finally, Jack commented.
"You've got beautiful legs, Toni. Your husband is a lucky man."
She flushed red. Almost whispering, she said.
"I'm engaged, and we'll be married in June."
I had a couple of months to enjoy her before she became pregnant.
Jack got up, leering at her, and headed to his office. Toni breathed a sigh of relief. I felt terrible for her.
"I apologize for him; he shouldn't have said that. However, for the record, you do have great legs."
She giggled, her skirt inching up to her stocking tops.
You're a great boss, and I take what you say as a compliment. But I still don't know the big deal about my stockings showing."
If she only knew how men are wired.
We got back to work. Her shorthand wasn't the best, and she didn't have a chance to look up. She would have seen me checking out her legs. Her panty girdle was showing; it was sheer black and did nothing to cover her clearly visible stocking tops. I got up and walked around with my papers, dictating.
I was checking her out all the while. She had her legs crossed at the ankle, and every few minutes, she tried to pull her hem down but never succeeded. It seemed that more of her thigh was exposed.
I was having trouble concentrating. I could picture her tied up, with me forcing my cock down her unwilling throat. The scalloped lace at the bottom of her girdle was showing. I finally gave up and told Toni we would finish later. She slipped off the stool, blushing, knowing she was showing quite a bit of her underwear; watching her wiggle out of my office on those high heels made my day.
After lunch, work caught up, so a couple of guys met at my office. They were all in their mid-forties and enjoying watching the secretaries.
"Have you seen that piece of ass from the front desk? Never mind, here she comes now." We all turned to see this vision walking by. Her name was Mandy, and she was fresh out of high school, having just graduated. And from how she wobbled in those high heels, it was surely something she hadn't mastered. Management always picked the most attractive girls for the front desk. When they got tired of them, they sent them to our office.
She must have enjoyed getting dressed up for work; you could tell by how her light yellow dress was molded to her curves. Although the neckline didn't show any cleavage, you could tell she was busty by the way her tits swayed beneath that dress. Suntan stockings and a blue choker completed her outfit. Her blonde hair was in a flip, setting off her wide-set blue eyes. The only problem was that she had just married; her husband was in the Navy, and they got married before he shipped out. We couldn't imagine how he felt not being able to fuck the daylights out of her anytime he wanted. I added her to my list of possibilities.
Later that week, the opportunity to take advantage of her presented itself.
Mandy stopped in to see me. She had reached the point where she was looking for overtime. She tried not to look desperate, but it was plain to see that she needed money. Secretaries made one dollar fifty cents an hour, which was higher than minimum wage. I told her overtime was not available to her; it was based on seniority.
Looking at the floor, she wiped her eyes, saying.
"I would do anything to earn more money. "I'm living with my in-laws and just found out I'm pregnant. I could work late, and I'm willing to learn."
I smiled, which seemed to relax her.
I felt bad for her for a few minutes, but it passed.
It was hard to feel sorry for her. She looked so fuckable. She wore a tight blue skirt, off-black stockings, and a tight blue knit top.
I took a chance.
"You said you would do anything? Exactly what do you mean?"
A look of shock washed over her face, then resignment. She knew what men liked, and with tears running down her face. She shifted on the stool and eased her skirt up, exposing her shiny garter clasps covered by the bottom of her black panty girdle. She barely whispered.
"I'll do anything you want except intercourse." That was cute. I hadn't heard that word since high school. She sat up straight, forcing her boobs out.
