Author's note: We are vacationing on the faintest fringes of plausibility here; in the land of the succulent nubile and her four horny bosses. If you haven't already, please read Ch.1 first (which I recently re-edited). Commenters have called it "campy," "fun," "sexy" and a "stroke-story extraordinaire." It also sets up the scenes and characters that continue below, without which you'll be lost. Click on my username (and then the stories tab) to find it.
Although this is in the Reluctance/Non-Consent category, it's at the mild, reluctant/gullible end of that spectrum with a dash of humor thrown in. Tiffany is twenty-two. This is an original work of fiction by me. Please don't steal it.
Enjoy!
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SCENE 6
It was nine sixteen in the morning. Tiffany pushed Doctor Adams away, breaking their minute-long kiss.
"Wait," she whispered. "I can't... do this."
The sandy-haired doctor hovered above her face, studying its post-orgasmic blush. With creamy smoothness he said: "Sure, you're prob'ly right."
He stepped back from the desk she was on and sat down.
Tiffany straightened up and wiped her wet mouth. Her mind swam. Everything had gone sideways in such a hurry. Her pale thong dangled from one sandal, her short dress was bunched around her waist and the wetness between her legs felt obscene.
The taste of her own sex had been on that kiss.
"I, I just..." she fumbled as she slid to her feet and stood in front of him, occupying the small space between the desk and his knees. She tried to cover-up, pulling the front of her dress back over her strapless bra in a motion that shuffled her breasts side-to-side. "I think I... I should go, sir. I'm sorry if I -"
"I'm not sorry at all," he drawled, scanning her up and down. "You looked so cute and... turned-on when I first saw you in Jacobsen's office. I couldn't resist. I had to taste you."
Her blue eyes widened. She tucked her chin and peeked furtively at him through displaced forelocks while clinging to her dress as if it were a security blanket. Her derrière still stung from the spanking Doctor Jacobsen had administered earlier.
Adams stood from his swivel chair, becoming so close to her that she could smell his shirt's starch and his suntanned, manly scent beneath.
Tendons in her neck tightened, deepening the hollow at the base of her throat. His desk was against her legs, preventing any retreat. She felt his breath casting warmth upon her forehead. He was millimeters away, back-lit by the lamp and window-shades.
She kept her face down and chewed her lip while alternating her gaze between his hands. They hung at his sides, loose and relaxed. Their careworn creases and half-curled bearing suggested skills and experiences of which she suddenly longed to be less ignorant.
Being held by him, she realized, was exactly what she wanted. A slug of air inflated her soft chest with hope. She looked up.
He stepped sideways, leaving her as abruptly as he had kissed her.
A crestfallen exhalation escaped her as he disappeared toward the door. She kept her back to him and re-wiped her smeared lips in an attempt to clear away this latest humiliation. Then she bent and fished her underwear around her sandals' thin heels and up to her waist.
Adams stopped with one hand on his office door, looking back. He enjoyed the sight of her young hips and ass being bisected by that slender garment.
When at last she turned to face him he shrugged, conceding: "I get it. It's your first day and you need to be able to work here without worrying about me trying to pressure you into anything that's not... you know, mutual."
She smoothed the fabric of her dress deliberately slowly to buy time. Her skin felt aglow; so blushed that her sparse freckles had disappeared. Inside her head nothing seemed to be working correctly. A jumble of un-asked-for sensations and instincts battled for control: desire, panic, embarrassment, anxiety, regret, lust... they were all in there flailing around like nunchuks. She couldn't pin down what she wanted to say, let alone do.
"No, I... um..." she began faintly, balancing on one petite sandal while nervously tilting the other inward. "It's not that—"
"Listen, Tiffany," he interrupted, "It's fine. We'll keep this little thing between us; like it never happened. Would that make you feel better?"
She nodded.
"Alright. No harm done then, see? Just a little fun."
She nodded again, more vigorously, feeling suddenly desperate to exit the room. She had to remind herself to breathe.
Doctor Adams remained in her way, holding the door shut for what seemed like an entire minute as he studied her discomfited posture. When she eventually gathered enough courage to hold his gaze he parted his mouth to speak.
But then he thought better of it.
During this silence Tiffany allowed herself to scan him lengthwise once, searching for any sign of his intentions. Amidst his athletic frame she perceived an incongruous bulge beneath his trousers. She immediately returned her scrutiny to his face, whereupon his good looks struck her all over again. In that moment he became incredibly handsome to her, especially because his kiss still buzzed on her lips. She had to force herself not to look down at his pants again. The warmth of her face made her worry that her thoughts were already too obvious.
He twisted the doorknob and pulled it aside.
She took a few steps forward and then wavered, inexplicably needing confirmation that he really wanted her to go. She was at sea, unsure whether her own feelings were real yet desperate to know if he might reciprocate them. When he gestured with an open hand toward the hallway she scurried by as quickly as her heels allowed.
His door shut behind her with a metallic snap.
"Shit," she whispered, clacking down the shiny linoleum hallway toward the clinic's lobby.
She would have made it all the way if the second-to-last door on the right had not been wide open.
"There you are!" Ian called out as she walked by. "What took you so long?"
She stopped mid-stride just beyond his office. A big part of her wanted to keep going; to run from the building, burst into tears and pedal her way back to Grandma's house. She knew the lurid sensations burning inside her were completely incompatible with work, but she did not want to quit. Not after that connection with Doctor Adams.
She teetered in the hallway, frozen with indecision.
"I still have to show you how to use the scheduling software and the phones!" Ian continued, emerging from his office energetically waving both hands. His face was alive with concern. "There's almost no time left before we open. Come on!"
Months and years later Tiffany would still reflect upon this moment in the hallway as a turning point. She could have continued her flight; run away and never seen the four doctors again. If she had her life might have returned to normal fairly quickly. No one would have blamed her, considering what she had just been through. Yet she didn't. No - instead she took a breath, straightened her posture and smiled at Doctor Mitchell as if nothing was wrong. In so doing she took a path less travelled and that, as they say, made all the difference.
Within an hour the clinic's lobby was occupied by waiting patients and she was perched atop her receptionist's stool in the middle of the room behind a transparent touchscreen podium full of appointments to manage. She wore a wireless headset over one ear and a fresh coat of lipstick. All four doctors were seeing patients that morning, which Doctor Mitchell said was unusual. It was her job to greet each visitor as they arrived, sign them in, offer them refreshments and then, in the most efficient sequence possible, escort them to the appropriate examination rooms.
Veteran patients reacted with mild wonder upon seeing the redecorated lobby. The re-painted walls and white, central reception dais were shockingly modern in contrast to Marge's old wooden desk. When their eyes alighted on young Tiffany perched on display behind the clear Plexiglas podium in her short sundress and push-up bra, they universally caught their breath with delight.
She could only smile back and attempt to greet them professionally.
Doctor Mitchell's strap-hiding modifications meant her boobs were always on the verge of spilling out, and the tall stool meant that no matter how tightly she crossed her legs she was constantly at risk of flashing the room. Nonetheless she became so occupied by the pace and novelty of her work that her brain soon suppressed these indignities.
