0 comments/ 12509 views/ 1 favorites The Boss of You Ch. 01 By: Chaingun I'm conflicted. I'm the boss and it's wrong. But watching you out there, every day, is difficult. We started at the same time, rose through the ranks together, confided in each other, and cried on each other's shoulders when each of our marriages fell apart. It's purely a fluke that I got the promotion; we both know the owner is a complete prick and more likely to promote the less qualified man over the more capable woman. And you are more than capable. In fact, I admire your demeanor and skills at this stupid job. Downsizing has left us nearly alone in this branch. An always absent part time administrative assistant and two warehouse guys are all that's left of our once thriving location. I can't help but still think of you as my equal, if not my better. And being here alone so often has been the catalyst that has stirred my emotions; making me consider throwing logic and propriety out the window. I know it's crossed your mind as well. Remember? You've told me what moves you; what things you enjoy. And the only thing stopping me from filling that void in your life is a stupid promotion. The only thing stopping me from filling that void in my life is how you might react to the sordid cliché of a boss seducing an employee. But today, you're wearing that skirt. You know; the shorter-than-the-rest one? Is it just me, or are you wearing a higher heel than your normal kitten heels? If memory serves, your outfit gets better on days that the admin isn't here. Watching you on the phone, your pretty lips give instructions to a customer and I watch, wondering what you are saying. Through the office windows, I see your long black hair bounce around your head as you move about the office returning files, making copies, and writing up proposals. And your mood, oh my, your mood; you've been so pleasant if not downright...chipper. Your enthusiasm is infectious and leaves everyone who comes in contact with you happier for the rest of the day. I'd give you a raise just for that if I was allowed to do it. That's it; I must act. And now. "Can you come in here?" In front of my desk, your questioning eyes pair with your always smiling mouth and it's difficult for me to say what I'm going to. All the air seems to have been sucked out of the room. A small clock on my desk throws minutes into the room and I finally summon the courage to say it. "I, uh, want something from you that is outside of your job description." Your smile brightens a little; perhaps you've considered it too? I am emboldened. "Turn around." There, I said it. There is no turning back now. It's either going to be a hard slap on the face followed by a humiliating lawsuit or a slice of heaven on earth. My heartbeat must be loud enough to drown out the clock. Longest...moment...ever. Hard eyes meet mine and I fear it is over. Goodbye job, goodbye you. But there is a softening of your eyes and I swear I see you fighting to hide a smile. The stillness is broken by the slowest half pirouette ever. Facing away from me, it's like you know what I want. You bend at the waist and now I feel like you are inviting me, if not challenging me to take what I want. Your hands are on the arms of the office chair in front of my desk and I can see a little higher up on the bare backs of your thighs as the skirt rises in back. I move behind. Dare I? Impulse and desire win and my hands slowly lift the skirt up and lay it gently on your back above your waist. A blue thong bisects the two cheeks of your bottom. I remember with clarity what you've told me about this fantasy. All I want is to do every one of those things for you. A light slap on the right cheek followed by a harder one to the left makes you jump; neither of us truly expected this would ever happen. I let the sound linger in the still office air. A pink glow appears on both round cheeks. Two more before I can change my mind and you let out a low moan; I know I'm on the right track. Perhaps I will not regret this after all. A rough hand cups the small bulge of the crotch of your thong. I know that I've got your entire sex in the palm of my hand and I grope it, kneading and needing this. It is both moist and slightly plump, hopefully from excitement at what I'm doing. I am excited too. As I play with you through the thin fabric, I admire the sight before me; your round butt, your lovely legs, your "slightly too sexy for work" heels. And I think of the things you've told me you like in this position. And again, I'm conflicted. I'm not interested in hitting you. You're too nice to hit and I hope I'm too nice to follow through with the light discipline that you say you like. And a different thought strikes me; wouldn't it be a form of "discipline" for me to deny you the physical sensation that you want? I mean, hey, if I'm the boss of you, I get to do what I want, not what you want. And I will do what I want. I kneel behind you and in one decisive move, peel the thong down your legs until it is a pool of blue lace at your pumps. Still bent over the desk, you tense a little, expecting more strikes. They are not coming. Not from me. I grab a cheek in each hand--roughly enough that I hope it will do for you for now—and spread them up and out from each other, exposing you, leaving you vulnerable to my tongue. And I am no longer conflicted. The Boss of You Ch. 02 The office has been abnormally quiet; neither of us willing to talk about what has happened. You go about your business and I go about mine. Each of us seem to be afraid to mention what happened the other day. Afraid of breaking the spell? Unsure that it had really happened? Embarrassed? Or delighting in the possibility of it happening again? And it doesn't help that you've dressed provocatively again today. I can barely concentrate on the job at hand. Two clients calling, angry about back orders, a late payment, and a way-too-long call from corporate about my branch's numbers. Who cares? If they could see you walking around in the outer office, they'd understand that I'm not working too hard on meeting their unrealistic quotas. What man gives a shit about order fulfillment while a beautiful girl struts around in a short skirt twelve feet away? I don't. But all the same, if I'm going to keep this failing branch open—and you and I gainfully employed—I need to at least keep business rolling in. And that's going to mean filling those back orders. A little research on my desktop computer reveals that one of them might be a simple clerical error; it appears to be in stock. The part numbers are a dyslexic's nightmare; and they're no picnic even if you don't have issues with reading. Long alpha-numeric codes define every damned little widget in that cavernous, dusty warehouse. And those parts are shrink wrapped, bubble wrapped, carded, boxed, bagged, and packaged in just about every type of container known to man. No wonder the two remaining warehouse guys can't fill an order. We kept the two least paid guys, not the most qualified. "Awesome foresight, you corporate dweebs." My irritation grows by the minute. I stab at the intercom button for the warehouse and accidentally and unknowingly press the one for "All". "Tom. Call the office. Tom, office." I see your head pop up as my annoyed voice is loudly broadcast from the phone right in front of you and your hand go to your mouth as you try to suppress your amusement at my mistake. And the phone sits silent, mocking me. You turn around, and make a motion as of a person spooning food into their mouth. My annoyance increases as I realize that Tom is at lunch. Dammit, this means that I will have to deal with Jose. And just as I hit the button to page Jose—the correct button this time—I see Jose walking through the office past you with his lunchbox in his hand. "Jose?" I call, "Can you double check a part number for me? I bet we really do have this in stock." His dismissive answer is, "No comprende," and he is gone. Dammit, I hate that guy. Everyone here knows he speaks English. I'll find it myself. In an increasingly annoyed state, I rise, stride past you, and go into the warehouse. The heat is stifling in the still and darkened space. No wonder those two are pricks; they work in a furnace for eight hours a day. I hate coming back here. Twelve minutes later, I'm soaked, dusty, and near lost. The part is not in the bin where our plan-o-gram says it should be. In fact, the bin isn't even where it should be. A little bit of searching though, and I've laid hands on the parts. I took a lucky guess and surmised the right combination of jumbled characters and out of sheer luck, found the stupid items. Back in the office, I dump them on your desk. "What the fuck is wrong back there? Those two seem to be making up their own methods of stocking three million dollars worth of parts." Your eyes tell me that you don't like my tone. I've hurt you with my anger; it's not directed at you, but all the same, you're the one here feeling the brunt of it. "What?" I ask. I know damned well what. I just need to be mad right now and I can't help but spill over onto you. "Why are you pissed at me?" you ask. "I'm not in charge of those guys. I never go back there." I bristle at your defiance. I just need to be mad but you talking back to me has raised my irrational anger to a new level. But that's all I'm capable of. I can't speak harshly to you any more than I have. Before I can make myself angrier, I storm off and re-enter the convection oven of our storage facility. Since I had such luck finding the first item, maybe I'll do as well with the others. Besides, I'm already dirty and sweaty. But this time, I'm not lucky. I wander aimlessly, angry with myself for acting up towards you--pissed because I cannot find these damned parts. Dammit! I lose focus. I'm standing at the far reaches of the space and I've lost track of time. This wasn't what I wanted for today, for my job, or for my life. Where are those fucking parts? I hear the click of your heels on concrete, snapping me out of my stupor. I love the sound that high heels make as a lady walks with purpose and I wonder what you're doing back here, how to apologize, and how to turn around this dull, dumb day. The clicking gets louder; you move closer. Hesitant starts and stops indicate that you're searching for something. "There you are..." you exclaim as you turn a corner and spy me at the long opposite end of the aisle of tall shelves. And you walk towards me. For someone so calm and put together, I notice that there is a lot going on when you walk. Legs swinging, hair bouncing, hips rolling, legs flashing, breasts slightly jiggling and I'm briefly reminded of a fashion model on a runway but with worse lighting and far more brains. The trip down the aisle takes forever and all I can do is stand and watch. I feel my anger melting; here comes my lover of two days ago. You excite me in ways I cannot describe to you and desperately want to. You stop mid-stride, ten feet away from me. There's a light sheen of sweat on you from your long exertion of wandering the warehouse looking for me. "What is it?" I ask. "I came to rescue you. You shouldn't be back here; it's too hot..." You stop abruptly when you see the look in my eyes. This connection we share is tangible, hanging on the air like the fruit of a forbidden tree. We move silently to each other, meeting halfway. Our embrace is instant, hot, and frantic. We're both slick with sweat but the way we kiss is that of two lovers on a distant beach. My hands are all over you; yours on me. Your blouse is open as quickly as I can unbutton it, your bra is unsnapped and hanging open, my desperate hands grope your pert breasts. I feel your hands, gently easing down my zipper, reaching through the fly, and grabbing at me. As you start to kneel, I catch you. "No, no time," I whisper. Backing you against the nearest sturdy shelf, I reach below your skirt. Naughty girl, you've removed your panties. Or...were you without all day? I hoist you easily into my arms, your legs wrap around my middle, and I thrust into you in one long stroke. I'm buried to the hilt and thrusting; our grunts and exertions fill the immediate space of the warehouse. Desperate for release, we heave and thrust like animals in the still and oppressive humidity. Our heated fuck is accelerated; without breaking our kiss, we again increase our pace. I can feel you dripping off of me where we are joined. I am close. Your hard nipples bore into my chest like hot pebbles between our chests. My hands support your ass and the feeling of your muscles rippling as I thrust into you and drive you into the shelving unit is putting me closer to my own threshold. Closer... Faster... Closer... "Cum for me. Do it!" you seethe through your clenched teeth and your permission to flood you with my seed sets off the hair trigger within me. Below, I can feel you clutching and gripping me tighter as your own impending orgasm builds within you. "This...is...it!" and with one final pistoning thrust I can hold it no longer. My spasm clenches my entire body into a hardened fist and I release into you. You claw at my back as your own orgasm crashes within you and we hang there, suspended in time like a broken clock that knows only one hour, until we both collapse to the floor, panting and trying to catch our breaths. Beneath me you struggle to catch your breath. Looking down at you, something in my sight drags at my brain. A small recognition struggles to surface in the murky waters of recovery. And then I notice the box near your head and the bar codes and numbers on the label. "Hey, thanks! That's the box of stuff I was looking for!" I exclaim and we collapse again, this time into a delicious laughing fit. The Boss of You Ch. 03 Three weeks have passed like hunting hawks in flight. We haven't stopped to talk about what we're doing, only acted on what we both probably fear is a doomed relationship but both of us too excited to stop it before it goes too far. Stolen moments, fleeting glances, and knowing looks that are probably held way too long are all that we can share at work. It's not proper for a boss to be fooling with his administrative assistant. I must be horribly old fashioned because in my brain, I keep starting to say, "secretary." You've corrected me more than once; in fact, you've put me in my place in front of the two warehouse drones and that battleaxe of a part time "assistant" that corporate saddled us with. They all are probably losing respect for me as their boss, but I don't give a shit. Corporate has written off our branch as dead weight and the only thing that keeps us in our jobs is their greedy desire to keep at least some of the parts flowing to old customers since that might actually pay the expenses on the building that they built at the height of the real estate boom and now have hanging around the figurative neck of their balance sheet like an albatross. In fact, if we were better at marketing, our huge inventory would probably be moving faster, selling down to a more manageable level, and making our jobs more and more superfluous until the day they send a liquidator in to assess our remaining inventory and blow it out the door at a rock bottom price right after letting the five of us go. But for now, I'm feeling proud of myself in a completely selfish way. I feel that through careful management of the flow of parts, I am delaying our sell-down and putting off that inevitable day when they say, "That's it. You folks can go home. We might pay you through the end of the year, but get your personal things and turn in the keys. We're closing this branch." Why "selfish," you wonder? Do you really have to ask? Because the only reason I'm not online all day pimping my resume is that while I'm employed here, I have a relationship going with my lovely assistant who I'm secretly dating after work and really secretly boinking while I'm AT work. I don't really know how to search for that kind of job on Monster.com since I think banging the help is frowned upon in other, more successful companies. I may be wrong. I don't know. And every day when those two doofuses from the warehouse head down the road for their "lunch break" to sit at the end of the international airport's runway, watch planes land, and smoke joints, you and I are playing. The admin sent in by corporate is never here at lunch time so it's only us and we make good use of that time. And every day that I don't seem to "notice" that the two stoners are coming back later and later, it also means that I have more and more time to touch, tickle, fondle, feel, kiss, caress, tease, and please Miss Dressing Too Sexy For Work. Today, you've got that skirt on that makes all the others look even shorter. Good Lord, those legs of yours do wonders for you. What they do to me however, is wholly unfair. If I hadn't bought you those shoes and that skirt, I would wonder if you were trying to give me some sort of heart condition. But since I purchased the entire outfit, I am well aware of the effect that the ensemble is meant to have on me. I wonder if you have followed the caveat that I laid down for when you wear it. Doofus One and Doofus Two are finally gone. Battleaxe is nowhere to be found; most likely she's writing a report to corporate about the non-necessity of transferring any of us to the St. Louis home office. Or maybe she's planning her next transfer where she will surely spy on another mid level manager and report what she sees until that guy too gets laid off or fired in shame for doing dirty, dirty things to his willing secretary. Dammit, Administrative Assistant. Says so right there on your business card. Your back is to my office door as usual. But through the windows, I can watch your cascading black hair fall about your shoulders, see your dusky skin as you shuffle papers around your desk, and once in a while I can see your lips while you're talking to customers on the phone. Those lips. The things that you've done with them since that first day when we stopped talking and started acting would convince anyone at corporate to keep you on in whatever capacity you wanted. "Dear Mid Level Management Drone, Please make arrangements to sell off all remaining inventory including office equipment and fixtures. Pay the final month's rent and utilities before closing the building. Send all outstanding purchase orders via courier to corporate office. Remit all sensitive documents to headquarters. Dismiss remaining employees with usual severance pay, except for Sarah. She is to report to the Executive Suites in St. Louis immediately to assume her new position. Fuck you and have a shitty life, Your Asshole Boss P.S. Drink bleach." Whatever. We're alone and I know you're waiting for me to take charge and start today's lunch hour fun time. I'll worry about stabbing my boss in the eye with a dull spoon at a later time. All of those dreary thoughts go right out of my mind when I watch you, when I remember what we've done in the last couple of weeks. And, my God, I must have you again before the relentless feeling in my brain causes me to go nuts. "Sarah," I speak into the intercom and you jump, startled. I know you're making fun of me in your mind since if I'd merely raised my voice, you would have been able to hear me through the glass windows of my office and the closed door. You punch the button and say, "Yeah?" as if to say, "Really? We're going to be this formal now?" "I have a task for you, Sarah." With pride, I notice that you immediately sit up straighter in your chair, back straight, motionless, waiting to hear the rest of my request. This is something you've learned in the last couple of weeks. That as we've played our game of "Yeah, I am the Boss of You," your signal that it's time to begin has been for me to call your end of it a "task." At work, we talk about the job, the workload, and the duties. When I say "task" we both know that one or both of us is going to end up naked, sweating, and sated soon. Your motion is something I've carefully nurtured in you, knowing that with subtle hints I could bring about in you a desired physical reaction as if you were submitting to me without even realizing that you had done it. And now that I have your attention, I am ready to get my daily dose of you doing my bidding. "Sarah, are you wearing underwear?" My voice through the intercom is loud in that outer office. So loud that if anyone else was in these offices, they would hear clearly my shattering of at least five "employee interaction standards." You are probably blushing at the question; not because it's embarrassing for me to ask but because you're almost afraid that someone will hear. I've certainly asked about the status of your undergarments before. I've asked what they were, what color they were, what their current state of "humidity" was, and directed you in when I wanted them left behind. But at work, I'm sure you're cringing a little. But interested in where this might go and remembering the ways in which we've enjoyed each other in the last couple of weeks, you do not answer except to shake your head in the negative. "I want you to lift your skirt. I want you to play with yourself. I want you to do it right there at your desk. I want you to do what I tell you when I tell you. I want you to continue to face away from me. I want you to listen carefully. I want you to cum. I want you." Dutifully, I can see the motions of your elegant hands in your lap as you lift the hem to allow yourself access to your sex. And I know that those manicured fingers are touching, probing, and stimulating something that I've grown to consider mine. As my instructions grow more detailed and more demanding of further acts of stimulation and intrusion to your center, you work vigorously to meet my demands. I can see your arms moving, know that you are getting excited and wet, and know that soon, you will be on a hair trigger waiting for me to make the demand that will set you off and have you gasping to catch your breath. Your head begins to lull back, your mouth open in a small "O" as it does when you're excited, and your eyes close as you near your release. I am pulling strings as if you are my personal marionette. You are performing solely for my enjoyment and I am drunk with the power I feel from this act. Sure, you will get to have your orgasm, but I am the one with the heady feeling of control over such a lovely creature as you. Beautiful, and until a couple of weeks ago, so innocent--naive even--you are now mine, to do with as I want in every sense of the word. Powerful word; want. I told you what I want. Just as I continue to hoarsely make demands of what I desire as you frantically masturbate yourself at my direction in the outer office. I want you to feel that slight fear, that pang, that someone might come back early; that "she" might walk in to tell us we're all fired. That you might get caught with your fingers in your pussy, so close to orgasm that you might not be able to stop if you did get caught. I want that feeling of desperation from you. I want you so ready to let it go that all I have to do is ask for it. But want works both ways. You want to hear my voice. You want my command, my direction, my guidance. You've told me that you crave it. You want my control over your sex life. You want me to tell you if and when you may orgasm. You want me to deny you if I see fit. And you want me to demand it of you if I want it too. Your motions outside my office are quick, repetitive, and quickening. I know from past experience that you are close. And you are probably in danger of giving up and letting it happen. So I press the intercom button one last time and say, "Sarah....?" Without waiting for an answer that might interrupt the fantastic voyage your brain is on, I continue. Finally, permission is granted. In fact, the act is demanded. "I want you to cum. Cum for me now, Sarah." And outside my office door, as I watch excitedly, all hell breaks loose as you allow it wash over you and consume you.