0 comments/ 24540 views/ 3 favorites Dictation By: Maverick3254 Nikki. I should have been concentrating on work, but all I could concentrate on was Nikki. It didn't help that she was right outside my office door at the desk she used as my secretary. It also didn't help that I was more annoyed than usual with my wife for the fact that I knew she was sleeping with our pool boy. She was being more careless about her affair, even though she had never once refused me in bed, probably because she knew our pre-nuptial would leave her nothing if we divorced. I was more tempted than ever to end it, and part of that had to do with Nikki. Physically, she was everything that my wife was not. You see, Nikki had a body that was absolutely designed for lust. It was as if she had stepped right out of the dreams of an overstimulated teenager. Every inch of her seemed to be either the beginning or end of another curve. Her legs were smooth and shapely, moving up to a slightly flared set of hips. I had fantasized about those hips on a number of occasions. Picturing her on my lap, riding me, as I grasped her hips and pushed her onto me, pulled me deeper into her again and again. Just the thought of it caused my shaft to stir as I gazed on her with intense desire. She got up to go over to the printer to fix a jam. She leaned over, her heart shaped ass perfectly outlined by her short tight skirt. The lines of her stockings ran straight up the back of her thigh. I began to imagine my hands slipping under that skirt as she leaned over a bit more, so intent on her work that the tops of her stockings were revealed, a pair of black lace garters showing, stretched taut over her smooth milky thighs. As she cleared the jam, she shifted suddenly, her hips undulating under the tight and thin fabric of her skirt. Nikki sat back down at her desk and I began to concentrate on my favorite part of her curvaceous body. My wife was very flat chested, a problem that Nikki hadn't had since she was a little girl. Her breasts were full and luscious, seeming to be liquefied lust poured into the lovely top that she was wearing today. A tight blue cardigan was stretched over her breasts; the v neck plunging below her breasts. Underneath, she wore a fiery red camisole; so low cut that if she removed her cardigan I was almost positive that the tops of her nipples would be visible. In my mind, that cardigan was already gone. I pictured her standing in front of me, her hands slowly rubbing her breasts, her fingers softly pinching her nipples as they began to poke through her camisole. "Sir? Is there a problem sir?" I awoke with a start from my reverie. Nikki was standing in front of me in my office, albeit still wearing the cardigan that I longed to see removed. "You had asked me to come in at two to take down a letter." I had completely forgotten, but was glad to have my distraction so much closer to me. She sat down and took out a pad and pen. She sat up straighter and pulled her arms close in to write, pushing her breasts up, almost on the verge of pouring out of her cardigan. I shifted in my seat, trying desperately to give my shaft the room it needed to avoid letting my erection become painful. I couldn't help ogling her as she dutifully wrote down everything I said. Every motion of her hands caused her chest to tremble. Whenever she made a mistake, she scribbled the offending word out furiously, her motions causing her breasts to come closer and closer to spilling out. I licked my lips unconsciously every time she shifted, my mind unwilling to stop imagining the feel of her breasts, their taste, the luscious pressure they could exert when squeezed around my throbbing shaft. "Does it seem warm in here?" I was once again ripped from my lustful dreams. "Is it okay if I take off my sweater? It's very warm." I nodded quickly, happy to agree. She leaned over and put down her pad and pen, her cleavage rubbing against the top of my desk. She then stood and slowly undid the buttons of her sweater. If I didn't know better, I would think I was getting a personal striptease. Her shoulders shifted back as she slipped it off of her arms, pushing her breasts forward as the sweater dropped to her chair. Her top was only slightly higher than I imagined. I couldn't see the tops of her nipples, but there was enough cleavage on display that I had to stop myself from drooling. She sat back down, her tits jiggling as I tried not to stare openly. She tapped her pen on her lips as she read over the letter to make sure she had everything. I looked intently as I watched her lips part, the tip of the pen almost imperceptibly slipping between them. Her eyes flashed up and caught mine staring and her lips curved into a small and devious smile. "It's okay to stare you know. I was wondering how long it would take you to give in." I was stunned. I wasn't exactly sure what was going on as she stood up and leaned over to put the pad and pen down. Her breasts almost poured out of her top as I now openly ogled her lustful body. I could see the small demi cup bra that clung to her full and delicious breasts, amazed that she could show that much cleavage without a push up bra. She walked around to my side of the desk and sat down, crossing her legs so that her skirt rode up her thigh to reveal more of the garter belt I had glimpsed earlier. "I know you've been watching me. But that's because I've wanted you to watch." She leaned forward, her breasts less than a foot from my face. I licked my lips in anticipation as she reached up and started to grope her breasts. She pulled her top down to fully reveal her breasts, her nipples visible through the sheer fabric of her bra. She playfully pinched and teased her nipples as I watched them grow hard and erect under her ministrations. My cock was fully engorged by this point, painfully aroused as I heard her softly moan in ecstasy at the feel of her fingertips. Nikki leaned close to my ear, her breasts pressed against me as her lips grazed my lobe. "I know exactly what you want. I've been watching you watch me. You just never noticed because you couldn't resist me." I knew she was right, but I couldn't think of an appropriate response. I just stared down at her cavernous cleavage, longing to feel it but unable to reach up and touch her for fear of making all of this a dream. She reached down and grabbed my cock as she stared into my eyes. As she slowly stroked me, I could feel the precum starting to drip out of me. "I want you to do two things. First, I want you to go into your private bathroom after I leave and get yourself off while you think of fucking my tits. Second, I want you to fuck me very hard after work today. But only if it's at your house and in your bed. I know your wife isn't giving you what you need, so I want you to take what you need where she is unable to satisfy you. Do you understand?" She squeezed my cock as she said that and I could only vacantly nod. Even if this was a dream, I would never forget it. She stood up and pulled one of the cups of her bra down. She leaned her head forward and ran her tongue over her swollen nipple. She then looked me in the eye as she dressed herself and walked out the door. Dictation "You're a good-looking woman, Mandy. You should apply." I frowned. "Why would my looks matter, one way or the other, Stella?" She smiled, shaking her head. "When it comes to men--especially men like Marion Howard--looks always matter." Shaking her head again, she added, "You should know that." I guess, deep down, I did know. I just didn't like it. "So, to be an executive secretary at Howard Enterprises--to be Marion Howard's own private secretary, in fact--doesn't require a person to have any secretarial skills?" "I didn't say that." She looked across the kitchen table, where we were drinking our tea. Stella and I were more than neighbors; we'd been friends since I'd moved into The Gables, a master planned community north of Paradise, five years ago, at age eighteen. Knowing I was temporarily unemployed and seeking work, she'd invited me over this morning, saying she had a hot prospect for me. "How would you like to work for Marion Howard, as his private secretary, for fifty-plus dollars per hour, benefits, and incredible perks?' Stella herself worked for Howard Enterprises, as an executive secretary to the company's Vice-president in Charge of Acquisitions, Lou Baxter. In fact, it was from him that she'd learned of the upcoming vacancy in Mr. Howard's office, and she'd put in a good word with her boss--a good word which, as it had tuned out, had helped to land me an interview with the search committee who was interviewing candidates for the as-yet unannounced position. I had gotten in ahead of the crowd, thanks to Stella. "Well, as it happens, I do have skills," I told my friend. "I can type 120 words a minute." Stella whistled. "Wow, girl!" "And I can file documents without getting finger cuts," I joked, "as long as they're digital, rather than printed." She chuckled. Reaching for a strawberry tart, she asked, "How's your dictation?" * * * Stella was one of my few friends who knew that I'm a male-to-female transsexual, or, "a chick with a dick." I sometimes use the latter term, despite its crudity, because it's more accurate in relation to my status. I'm every inch the lady, except for the minor details of my cock and balls. I have long, dark, wavy hair; a heart-shaped face that would be beautiful enough to get me killed if the wicked witch in 'Snow White' were my stepmother; firm, high, round breasts; a concave tummy; a sleek, round bottom; and shapely thighs and calves. I've even had my Adam's apple shaved, undergone complete electrolysis, and taken lessons in feminine deportment from a leading finishing school. Only my genitals belie my otherwise completely feminine charms. I turn a lot of heads--both men's and women's--when I walk or jog. As Stella said, I am a good-looking woman--well, in every way that matters, except my sex. Mr. Howard wouldn't be able to guess the truth, and I knew that Stella would never out me, so I wasn't particularly concerned about my transsexual status. The interview had been grueling, with five men peppering me with questions, a few outrageously sexist, while the single woman on the search committee, installed as a seemingly friendly face, pretended to deflect her male colleagues' hostile interrogation. Curiously, all she asked was "how's your dictation?" I was dressed for success, though, poised, and ready with answers that were good enough to land me an interview with the man himself, Marion Howard, CEO of Howard Enterprises. The committee's chair had telephoned me last Friday afternoon, at 4:45 PM to give me the good news: "Mr. Howard has asked us to have you come in for a personal interview with him next Tuesday afternoon, at 4:00 PM." * * * The entrance to Howard Enterprises was agleam with glass, marble, and highly polished wood. The place was like a cathedral--a cathedral dedicated to capitalism and commerce. Its ceiling rose majestically high, and, set in alcoves, were full-size marble statues of the deities of American business, each identified by his name--there were no women among the gods, I observed. Etched in nameplates of gold were the names of ruthless robber barons so famous--or infamous--that the nameplates were redundant; all were men who'd known what they'd wanted and had been willing to do whatever was necessary to get it: Astor, Carnegie, Gates, Harriman, Mellon, Morgan, Rockefeller, Vanderbilt, Walton, and, of course, the man himself, Marion Howard, CEO of Howard Enterprises. I studied the man. He was oversize, looking more like a Titan than a human being, bulky with brawn, not fat, and with sharp features--the piercing eyes of an eagle--or a snake--the beaked nose of a hawk, and the thin lips of a reptilian predator. I half-suspected that, were the statue's mouth to open, I'd see, inside, not only fangs instead of teeth, but a forked tongue as well. I shivered. There seemed no humanity in the figure, just a cold ruthlessness that was capable of anything. I had no doubt but that, like the others whose statues graced the entrance, Howard had earned his place among them by his own unscrupulous willingness to do whatever it took to make another dollar, another quarter, another dime, another nickel, or another penny. Dwarfed by the presence of the larger-than-life life-size figure of the company's chief executive officer, who was, I had to admit, a handsome devil, despite his merciless gaze, I wondered whether I'd made a mistake in answering his call for an interview. Did I really want to work for such a man? Curiously, the vast entrance was virtually devoid of people. There was no receptionist, no information desk clerk, no security staff--at least, none that I could see--although, I suspected, my every move was being taped by hidden security cameras, and the building's vast entrance would be flooded with armed men and women should a camera suggest anything might be amiss. Near the bank of elevators, I saw another niche in the wall. This one was not occupied by another robber baron's statue, however; it housed a computerized, digital building directory. Relieved, I strode toward the device. When I was within three feet of it, a perky female voice addressed me: "Good morning, Ms. Hall, and welcome to Howard Enterprises. How may I assist you, please?" Wow, I thought. "I am here to see Mr. Howard," I replied, enunciating clearly. I felt idiotic speaking to a machine, even if it was high-tech enough to have greeted me by name. "Mr. Howard is on the eighty-fifth floor, Ms. Hall," the soothing voice responded. "Take any elevator. Use the code that the search committee provided to you to access his floor." Code? What code? I wondered. Panic rose within me. I hadn't been given any code! I was about to tell the directory as much when I realized that I had been issued a code. "If you are invited to see Mr. Howard," one of the search committee inquisitors had told me, tell the elevator that you are 'just peachy.' Use that exact phrase: 'just peachy.'" I had assumed that the idiot had meant to say "tell the elevator operator," not "tell the elevator," but, now, after having met the electronic directory, I wasn't as sure that he had misspoken. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Hall?" "No, thanks." "Good luck with your interview." "Thanks." Why was I thanking a freaking machine? I asked myself. Shaking my head, I strode across the marble floor to the bank of elevators and pressed the Up button. Within moments, a car arrived, the doors parting silently, and my eyes widened, my mouth gaping in surprise, as I saw none other than Tom Martin, dressed to the nines in an expensive, tailored three-piece suit, briefcase in hand. "Amanda?" he cried. A sardonic smile spread, like a demon's grin, across his too-handsome, pretty-boy face. His teeth were as unnaturally white as ever--gleaming, in fact, each one capped with a perfectly matched porcelain veneer. He shuffled the briefcase from his right to his left hand, extending the empty one for me to shake--or, knowing him, I thought--so that he could raise the back of my hand to his lips, to kiss, in a mockery of the affection and romance that we had once briefly shared. "You look as if you've seen a ghost, my dear." Ignoring the offer of his hand, I declined to take the bait. "Thomas," I said, my tone cold enough to frost the air. I stood aside, giving him plenty of room to make his exit. He didn't move. I shrugged, pressing the Up button again. There were seven other elevators; I wouldn't have to wait long, even if he refused to exit his car. Tom stepped out of the lift. "What brings you here, to Howard Enterprises?" he asked. "I might ask you the same thing, if I cared to do so," I quipped, annoyed at my one-time lover's impertinence. What I was doing here, or anywhere else, for that matter, was none of his damned business, not after the way he'd treated me. "I work here," he said, enjoying the sight of my reaction to his declaration. He patted his briefcase. "I'm the Vice-president in Charge of Research and Development." I willed the elevator to arrive. "So, why are you here, Mandy?" He pronounced my name as if it were that of a child who'd accidentally wandered into adults-only territory. Mercifully, my elevator did arrive, and I stepped briskly inside. Before the doors closed, Tom hurriedly informed me, "Don't worry, Mandy, I put in a good word for you--with Mr. Howard himself." I could hear his laughter, like the sound of a jackal, through the closed doors. "Good morning," a male voice said, addressing me from a concealed speaker. "Which floor, please?" "Just peachy," I said, and the car ascended with a swiftness and a silence that seemed to symbolize the single-minded, meteoric rise to the top of the business world that Marion Drake's success represented. All the way up, I worried about just what Tom had told Mr. Howard. Would he have mentioned anything that might jeopardize my chance of landing the position of the CEO's private secretary? What if the jerk had told him about--I dismissed the thought; I didn't want to go there. I was nervous enough as it was. Needless to say, I arrived early: at 3:45 PM, to be exact, I was seated in his outer office, briefcase poised atop my stocking-encased knee. On the wall, behind the secretary's desk, where an elderly woman, Ms. Chambers, according to her brass nameplate, was filling in until Mr. Howard's new personal secretary--me, I fervently hoped--was hired, a clock read 3:48. The seconds ticked by at a rate of one per hour, it seemed. Trying not to fidget, I turned the pages of a couple of magazines on the coffee table near the leather couch upon which I was perched, but I was too nervous to read any of the articles, most of which were financial in nature and looked boring as hell, anyway. As I continued to wait, I began to daydream. With an annual salary of more than $100,000, trips to Paris, London, and Rome would become real possibilities, not just idle fantasies. Maybe I'd invite Stella along. After all, if not for her, I wouldn't have gotten the job. You haven't even been offered the position yet! I reminded myself. I would be offered the job, though, I was confident. Somehow, I just knew I'd land it. I imagined myself seated in Ms. Chamber's place, behind the huge mahogany desk that was the gateway to Marion Howard's inner sanctum. She caught me looking, and I reprimanded myself for my boldness. It wouldn't due to incur the ire of any company employee, not when I was, as yet, a nobody seeking work. As I started to avert my eyes, blushing slightly, I saw the ancient woman smile. Beneath the severe expression of her wrinkled countenance, she was a friendly soul, I saw, an angel, perhaps, stationed here to assist me, as the magical helpers who sometimes appear in fairy tales, at critical moments, aid questing heroines. "May I offer you a tip, miss?" My heart fluttered. I tried--but surely failed--not to appear too anxious as I nearly blurted, "Yes! Please!" "You've heard of the Hollywood casting couch?" I frowned. What kind of question was that? "Yes," I murmured. "That infamous article of furniture is not exclusive to the offices of Hollywood moguls." Now, I blushed scarlet, feeling my face warm as it flushed with blood. "You mean--?" "Don't be shocked, my dear. Mr. Howard appreciates only feigned naivete." In my mind, I heard, again, the question, asked by both Stella and the female interviewer on the search committee: "How's your dictation?" Suddenly, in light of what Ms. Chambers had just told me, the question took on a whole new, wholly disgusting, meaning. "How is your dictation" was an old joke, based upon a pun, with "dictation" a stand-in for "dick-taking," as in sexual intercourse or fellatio. I glanced at the clock: 4:00 PM. "Mr. Howard will see you now," Ms. Chambers announced. I rose, smoothing the front of my pleated satin skirt. "How do I look?" I asked the aged woman. "Yummy," she said, offering me another of her sweet smiles. She escorted me to the door to Mr. Howard's office, where she rapped twice upon the massive wood. A buzzer sounded, and I heard the electronic lock open. "You didn't hear about the couch from me," Ms. Chambers said. She opened the massive door, revealing a vast plain of gold carpet. "Good luck." "Thanks," I said, entering the lion's den. The door closed of its own accord, and I heard the lock reengage as it shut behind me. * * * Mr. Howard sat behind an expansive desk at the opposite end of what seemed to be an acre of carpet. He was a big man, both figuratively and literally. He filled his immense leather executive's chair. His shoulders were wide, his chest deep and powerful, his arms massive inside the custom-fitted jacket of his three-piece suit. He was huge, but I doubted that there was an ounce of fat on him; he was all muscle. His octagonal office was tastefully, even elegantly, decorated, and the furnishings were obviously expensive. Oil paintings, not cheap prints, adorned the paneled walls. A 500-gallon aquarium stocked with exotic fish; a waterfall cascading over blocks of granite; marble statues; a terraced garden of blossoms and flowering plants--these were but a few of the extravagant items that graced his inner sanctum. Several walls were lined with leather-bound books, and, in the middle of the room, halfway between the door and his desk, a pair of leather-upholstered burgundy couches faced one another across a glass-topped coffee table. A pair of red armchairs, also in leather and also facing one another across the coffee table, completed the group. Tables, lamps, credenzas, and wing-back chairs were placed here and there about the eight-sided office. A big-screen television set dominated an entire wall. Behind his desk, thirty 25-foot-tall windows, each three-feet wide, looked out across, and down, upon adjacent and distant skyscrapers, offering a view of the city view that, spectacular, now, in the daylight, would be absolutely breathtaking at night. The presence of doors in several of the walls suggested entrances to additional rooms; it was obvious that the CEO's office was comprised of an entire suite of rooms. "Ms. Hall," he greeted me, standing. He was well over six feet tall, I judged. "Come in, please." As I maneuvered across the exquisite room, he strode forth to meet me, extending his ham-size hand as he offered me a broad, charming smile. We shook, my hand disappearing in his massive paw, and I was surprised at how gentle he was. Some men feel the need to assert their masculinity by nearly breaking a woman's hand as, instead of shaking courteously and considerately, they hold her in a death-grip, the brutes thereby demonstrating their greater physical strength--and, in their primitive minds--their "superiority." Mr. Howard didn't need to play such mind games. He was as certain of his manhood, it seemed, as he was confident of his business acumen and his administrative abilities. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, nodding toward the group of couches and armchairs that formed an island in the middle of the spacious chamber. "Let's have a seat, shall we?" His tone and manner suggested that he was inviting me to join him for a round of friendly small talk, rather than for an interview. Mindful of Ms. Chambers' and Stella's warnings of corporate casting couches, I chose one of the armchairs, and he seated himself across from me, the coffee table between us. "Would you care for a drink?" There was a huge wet bar along one of the room's many walls, but I wanted to keep my mind clear and stay focused on the business at hand. "No, thank you, sir." "Something to eat? Howard Enterprises boasts some fabulous chefs. We can order whatever you like." I blushed, unused to such attention and not expecting such treatment from a busy, wealthy tycoon of Mr. Howard's stature and reputation. Didn't he have better, more important things to take care of than me? I wondered. "No, thank you, Mr. Howard." "Well, then, perhaps we should get down to business," he said. "You come highly recommended. Very highly recommended." "Thank you, sir." "Oh, it wasn't a compliment, Ms. Hall; it was a statement of fact." I felt myself blushing again. I hoped my interviewer wouldn't notice, but I was pretty he would. Not much escaped Marion Howard, I was sure. "Would you care to see my resume?" I opened my briefcase. He smiled. "I've seen it, Ms. Hall." Of course he had, I told myself. How stupid of me to have asked him such a question. He wouldn't have invited me for an interview unless he'd already vetted me by the best in the business. I wondered which of the city's private investigators his company used or, I thought, perhaps they have their own, a squad of former police detectives, in their employ. It was a safe bet that he knew all about my financial history, whether I'd ever been arrested or convicted of a crime, where I'd lived and for how long, who I had dated, and a lot, lot more. Panic seized me for a moment as I wondered whether he had also learned my secret. No, I decided, that was so unlikely as to be virtually impossible. Aside from my shrink, my surgeon, Stella, and a couple of other friends who'd rather be waterboarded than betray my confidence, no one knew; I was safe. No one who could out me would out me. I was sure of that. "Can you really type 120 words a minute?" he asked. "Yes, sir." He looked at me, his piercing eyes seeming to drill into my skull, to penetrate my very brain. His stare was so direct and powerful that I wanted to avert my eyes, but I could not; there was something almost mesmerizing about his fixed gaze. My throat was dry. I swallowed, shifting slightly in my chair as I awaited his next question. "Are you really a male-to-female transsexual?" he asked. I nearly passed out from the sheer panic that filled me as I wondered both what to say and who had betrayed my secret. He smiled. "Never mind answering," he said. "I can tell that you are." A tear formed at the corner of my eye, and I blinked it away. All I needed, now, was to start bawling. I needed to have a good cry, more desperately than I'd ever needed anything else in my life, but it would have to wait. If I lost it now, and started weeping, in the presence of Marion Howard, CEO of Howard Enterprises, I could kiss my $100,000-plus secretarial position goodbye. How can you tell? I wanted to ask him. I also wanted to ask which of my friends--or presumed friends--had outed me. Which traitor had told him my secret? But, of course, I said nothing. I'd probably lost the job, anyway. Not many men are all that keen to associate with transsexuals. Oh, we may be good enough to lay, but not many guys want to accompany us on social occasions, and they want to be seen in our presence during the conduct of business even less. I doubted that Mr. Howard was any different.