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Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 01

By: inkyscandal



Author's Note (v2): Nothing new here thematically; just a sweet girl dealing with the usual workplace nuisances. You know: spankings, cunnilingus, outfit modifications and incessant groping.

Not that you're into that sort of thing... Gosh no! Not you.

You're here to read the part where she bicycles to work barefoot in a very short dress. And masturbates in the shower. 

It's okay. I gotcha covered either way.

Enjoy! 

*

SCENE 1

Halfway through the interview, Doctor Ian Mitchell knew his luck was back.

Fidgeting nervously in a wooden chair opposite him was a petite blue-eyed brunette with freckles across her nose. Her name was Tiffany Topper. Judging by her resume she was in her early twenties but Ian thought she looked even younger. Her dark hair was straight and cut short. It framed her face like a pair of parentheses. Her eyelashes were lush and long, accentuated by mascara that set-off the size and intensity of her indigo irises. She had a habit of rubbing her lips together as though she had just applied Chap Stick. 

Ian figured that was because she was nervous. He was being hard on her.

"So, you're work history isn't really applicable," he continued, "and it's all on the East Coast. What makes you think you'd be a good receptionist out here in a Colorado mountain town?"

Tiffany re-crossed her legs for the tenth time in as many minutes. She couldn't stop playing with her hands either. Doctor Mitchell looked friendly enough, but he was certainly difficult to impress. She had hoped to charm her way into this job, but that plan was clearly not working.

"Um... Well," she answered tentatively, "I know from being a waitress how to be nice to just about anyone... and how to keep track of what they want. And my last boss said I was a really good worker. I realize I don't have any office experience yet, but I'm sure I could learn really fast."

"Folks out here are different than you're accustomed to back in Boston, Tiffany. We don't put up with entitled attitudes and general fakery. The patients who come to this clinic expect honest, straightforward help."

"Of course."

"Some of them are older folks. Others, for a variety of reasons, may look and act differently from what you'd expect. But they all deserve our utmost attention and respect."

"I understand sir. I would never—"

"Take Marge for example. You met her on the way in. She's been the receptionist at this clinic for twenty three years; since long before my partners and I took it over. Folks 'round here know her like family. At her retirement party last week, over a hundred people came. That's a lot for this little town. You understand? I want to know if you can bring that sort of commitment to this."

"Well, sir, I..." Tiffany stumbled. She wanted to avoid the subject of how long she planned stay in Rifle, Colorado. She took a deep breath that puffed out her chest and tried to dodge the question: "First, please just let me say how sorry I am that you're losing such a good employee. You and your partners must be very sad and I realize I could never replace Marge, but... if you give me a chance I'll do a good job... I promise."

"But for how long?"

"Ugh," Tiffany sighed, "I knew you would ask me that, sir. And like I said earlier, I just moved here so I realize nobody in town knows me yet. But the truth is I'm staying with my grandma. My parents sent me here because they wanted to separate me from the group of friends I was hanging out with. So, I don't know how long—."

"Why'd they do that? Are you in some sort of trouble?"

"Well, no, not like... with the police or anything. I just made a bad decision. And they didn't like my boyfriend."

"So they sent you away to grandma's for a while to straighten you out?"

"Yeah—I mean, yes sir. That's pretty much it."

"And you plan to skedaddle back to Boston as soon as they'll allow it. Is that the shape of it?"

Tiffany re-crossed her legs the other way, wishing she had dressed more professionally. Doctor Mitchell looked so polished in his dress shirt and jacket. His clean-shaven face was handsome and his dark hair shone under the overhead lights. She, in contrast, had intentionally worn her tightest jeans and a bright yellow, scoop-necked top. Doctor Mitchell did not seem at all interested in her curves however, so she felt more foolish than sexy.

"I don't know, sir, and that's the honest truth. I quit my job before I moved, and since I've already graduated I don't have a firm date to go back to school or anything, but... I suppose I'll move back at some point." 

"Well, Ms. Topper, that's a problem for me." 

Doctor Mitchell was lying of course. He had already convinced himself to hire Tiffany regardless of how briefly she planned to stay. He did not want to miss this opportunity to directly supervise such a hottie. It would be more fun than he'd had in ages.

He and his partners were sick of Marge Olson and her scowling, curmudgeonly ways. She scared all their young and healthy patients away. For Doctor Mitchell's chosen line of work that was especially problematic. His expertise was in reproductive health, and for the past four years he had been trying to establish a roster of marketable sperm donors. With a local male patient-population averaging older than forty five, who generally looked askance at the idea of sperm donation, this was hardly a flourishing aspect of his business. What he needed was a tool to entice the younger local men, who had the healthy sperm women wanted, to become his regular donors.

Tiffany could be that tool, he imagined. His own libido had reacted immediately when she walked into the office, and the longer he interviewed her the more certain he became that she was the answer to his prayers. She was smart enough to do the job but seemed supremely empathetic and malleable. He got the impression she would agree to just about anything so long as it was properly presented. And to top it all, she was cuter than any girl this town had seen in living memory. The local boys would be star struck.

As the minutes clicked by, he eventually ran out of legitimate questions. Purely out of desire to see her walk around in those tight jeans again, he suggested that he needed to test her eyesight. 

Tiffany thought this request was a little strange but guessed that perhaps it was common for an office receptionist to need good eyesight, so she agreed.

He came around his desk and offered her a hand as she rose from her chair. Then he gestured toward the hallway and told her to head to the second exam room on the left. As Tiffany made her way through his office door and then down the brightly-lit hallway, he followed a few paces behind and let his eyes wander her backside.

Tiffany was conscious of his ogling, but blamed herself for choosing such form-fitting clothes. After all, the very reason she had worn this outfit was to leverage her natural assets into a new job. But now she scolded herself silently. It had been disrespectful to assume that someone like Doctor Mitchell might be so easily manipulated. He seemed far more serious than the doofus managers she had reported to in the past.

Still, she kept her shoulders square and concentrated on walking gracefully. She did not want him to think she was unattractive.

That worry was needless of course. Doctor Mitchell's face was pursed in lustful focus as he trailed behind her, eyes mesmerized by the rhythmic flex and release of her denim-clad derrière. She had the nicest little butt he could remember seeing in a long while. 

When they reached the exam room, he flicked on the lights and tried to assert a professional demeanor. He asked Tiffany to stand in front of the eye chart. As a quick test of her compliance, he walked up behind her and placed his hands around her ribcage just below the line of her bra.

"Just back up a little more," he said, pulling her gently away from the chart on the wall. 

When she made no objection to this touch he slid his hands down to her waist, relishing its remarkable slimness. He adjusted her position a little more, feigning concern that she needed to be exactly the right distance from the wall. 

Tiffany had to stifle a giggle. His fingertips tickled and felt a bit naughty. She did not want to appear immature, however, so she tried not to squirm or make any noise.

"Good," he said finally, giving her a quick pat on both shoulders before moving off to one side.

Tiffany sensed that Doctor Mitchell was appraising more than just her eyesight but this did not bother her. In her prior food-service jobs her co-workers had always been flirting, patting and groping each other. She was accustomed to it. She straightened her posture and sucked in a lungful of air, trying to boost the profile of her medium-sized boobs.

"Okay," Ian began, standing to the side and looking her up and down. "Please cover your left eye and read the last three letters in the 4th row."

"E, H, Y," Tiffany recited, finishing with a pearl-white grin.

"Good. Now cover just your right eye, please. Read the first four letters in the 5th row."

"Z, I think, and then A, P -- or that could be a D, then Q."

"That's fine. Now, cover both eyes please, and tell me...."

Ian smirked as Tiffany dutifully covered both eyes and waited for him to finish his sentence. Despite himself he let out a mirthful chuckle.

"Tiffany, that's a joke," he said.

"Oh my god," she suddenly laughed, yanking her hands down and swiveling to face him. "I'm such a moron. I can't believe I did that!"

"Sorry. It's just an ice-breaker we use with patients sometimes. It gets a laugh even when they don't fall for it."

Tiffany's face warmed to a pink flush with embarrassment. She quickly averted her gaze downward, hooked her thumbs into her jeans' back pockets and began twisting the toe of one shoe into the floor.

Ian looked her up and down again, relishing her youthful skin and lithe shape. Her top's elastic fabric hugged her boobs perfectly. Its low neckline revealed a hint of cleavage that rose and fell with each breath. 

'Goddamn,' he thought to himself before leading her back to his private office.

Once there, he shut the door and motioned for her to drop into a small leather roll-arm couch that was in the opposite corner from his desk. Then he sat down in a matching chair nearby. 

"Tiffany," he announced, leaning forward to appear both intimate and professional at the same time. "I think you're going to be a good fit here."

"Really?!" she gushed, clasping her hands to her open collar. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious. Despite my reservations about your experience and your potential longevity, I'm willing to take a risk on you."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea how great this is. You're like, the only one hiring besides the drillers!"

"Well, hear me out first. I have some conditions."

"Okay -- Sorry, I'm just so excited!"

"You'll be a probationary employee during the first ninety days. That means any infraction of your employment agreement may be grounds for termination. I'll email that to you so you have a chance to read it before signing."

"Alright."

"You'll start on Monday, at 7:30 sharp. The clinic doesn't open until 10:00, but there is always work to do beforehand. Sometimes we stay open late too, so I'll expect you to be flexible in the evenings. Your pay rate for any overtime will accrue at time-and-a-half."

"Great."

"Do you have a cell phone?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. I'll need your number before you leave. My three partners and I will expect you to be always on-call in case we need you."

"Um, okay."

"Aside from those details, the main thing we need to talk about is your role here. I realize you may think of this as just a temporary job in some backwater town, but we have big plans for this clinic. My colleagues and I are close friends. The four of us have known each other since med-school. After residency we all got jobs in different cities, but when the rural medicine initiative came out a few years ago, we decided it was too good to pass up. So we found this place where we could all work together again. We plan to build something special here. It's taken longer than we expected, but we remain undeterred. I want you to become an integral part of our team and for starters, while you're still learning, I want you to bring some youthful energy and playfulness to the office. To cheer everyone up."

"Yes sir. I'm sure I can do that..."

"My partners and I have stressful careers that don't allow the sort of work-life balance most people enjoy. We've each had to endure real losses in our personal lives."

"Gosh, I'm so sorry. I—"

"Any time we're feeling down, we can't provide the best patient care. So, keeping the four of us happy and relaxed will be just as important for you as welcoming our patients."

"Yes, I understand."

"Good. And lastly, let's talk about your clothes. What you're wearing today is not professional enough."

"Oh, I know and I'm sorry! I won't ever be this casual again. I mean, as soon as I walked in today, I thought I'd already blown it! I'll make sure I look more professional from now on. I really appreciate you taking a chance on me."

"Well, that's fine, but looking professional isn't the only goal. I'm not a jacket-and-tie sort of guy, really. Plus, it's warm this time of year so... your attire should be seasonally-appropriate and it should reflect your age too. How old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty-two."

"Right. So, you need to strike a balance. I'll leave that up to you."

"Well, okay but... now I'm confused. I have, like, casual clothes and I have some stuff I used to wear to my last job, but..."

"Well, to be clear, office attire means high heels, obviously. But I'm not so formal as to require stockings, especially at this time of year. You should wear skirts and dresses. Pant-suits are too old for you. And try to look approachable and flirty. Our patients are often nervous when they first arrive. It'll be your job to put them at ease. Understand?"

"Sure. Yes. I think so."

"Good."

Tiffany was doing a mental inventory of her clothes, and quickly realized that Doctor Mitchell's guidance was a bit of a blessing. Given this job's low hourly wage, and especially in the absence of any tips, there was no way she could afford to buy a whole bunch of office clothes. Now it seemed she could piece together outfits similar to what she had worn on dates with her ex-boyfriend before her parents had split them up.

"When you arrive on Monday morning, I'll introduce you to the rest of the team. In the meanwhile, just enjoy your time off. And I'll email you those employment papers to sign."

"Thanks Doctor Mitchell," Tiffany beamed as they both stood up. "I will."

"The weather is supposed to stay nice through the weekend," he offered, trying to sound casual as he extended his hand toward her. "You should try to get a tan."

"Oh?" Tiffany said with a smile as her hand was enveloped by his. "That's an idea. Maybe I will."

Ian forced himself to shut-up at that point, not wanting to freak her out with any other suggestive comments. Together they walked toward the front door of the clinic, passing through the lobby where a scowling Marge sat waiting for the clock to run down on her final week of employment. 

Ian pushed the glass door wide open and waved goodbye as Tiffany strode out into the sunshine. When the door shut between them he stood there, watching the side-to-side flick of her young hips recede across the parking lot. 

A wide grin split his face when she climbed onto a bicycle.

"I sure hope you didn't hire that one," Marge croaked loudly from behind the reception desk. "She looked like a real floozy."

Ian turned and slowly walked back toward his office. Along the way he sighed in Marge's direction and simply said: "Yep."

SCENE 2

Tiffany wasted much of the following two days online; surfing Facebook and her favorite shopping websites, watching viral videos and texting with her friends in Boston. She did not think there was much else to do in Rifle, Colorado. 

Her grandmother was in her eighties, but still mobile and independent enough that she did not need much help. In fact she kept the small garden around the house flourishing and cooked three meals a day. Tiffany took it upon herself to do the housework and the grocery shopping though. She loved her grandma and did not want to be a burden.

As the weekend approached, Doctor Mitchell's instructions about her new job kept creeping into her thoughts. He had mentioned she should look 'approachable and flirty' and wear either skirts or dresses. She also remembered his suggestion about getting a tan, which made her think that perhaps he found her skin unattractively pale. She was, after all, from Boston. Perhaps a suntan would do her good.

On Saturday morning, as the sun crept toward noon, Tiffany shut down her laptop, put on a string bikini and went outside to the rear yard. She brought a large towel with her and arranged it in the center of the lawn. Her grandmother was inside baking something for lunch, and the backyard was completely fenced off from neighbors, so she felt she had some privacy.

She sat down and pushed her short hair back with a plastic headband. Then she squirted a big glob of SPF15 into her hand and began smearing it all over. She lay on her back and began carefully narrowing the triangles of her bikini to cover as little as possible, rubbing the sunscreen into every inch of exposed skin. In so doing she noticed that her pubic hair had grown-out during the month since her last waxing. She made a mental note to shave it before Monday. Once satisfied that her suit was as small as possible, she relaxed and shut her eyes against the bright mountain sunlight.

Half an hour later she flipped over and repeated this process; first smearing sunscreen all over her backside, then narrowing the seat of her bikini into little more than a thong. She also untied the back of her top completely. As she lay there in the sun she thought about the tan-lines the side strings of her bikini bottoms would create around her hips. She pulled them up higher, almost to her waist, hoping to minimize the lines while keeping the rear triangle of coverage as narrow as possible.

She closed her eyes and eventually dozed off. Her grandmother woke her an hour later for lunch. As she stood, re-tied her bikini top and pulled its bottoms out of her butt crack, she noticed that her skin felt warm to the touch.

After lunch Tiffany cleaned the kitchen. Then she stood before a mirror in the guest bathroom and checked on the progress of her tan. So far so good, she thought. But her front definitely had some catching up to do. She returned to the garden and lay on her back, applying a fresh coat of sunscreen to all her exposed skin.

By three o'clock in the afternoon she felt a bit fried, so she retreated to the cool shade of the house and took a shower. A thick coat of moisturizer soothed her skin.

On Sunday she repeated this ritual, the only difference being that her grandmother was away with her church group so she had the entire house to herself. She brought her iPod and headphones out to the garden and took the liberty of completely removing her top. Having her boobs exposed to the sun was a novel thrill for her. She noticed that rubbing her nipples with suntan lotion felt good, and the sun's warm radiation felt oddly healthy. She narrowed her bikini bottoms even more than the day before, wanting to minimize her tan lines but lacking the courage to go fully nude. 

By late Sunday afternoon she had established a solid base tan. It reminded her of being on summer vacation. She could not help smiling at her naked reflection in bathroom mirror as she prepared to shower before dinner.


Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 01



The guest bathroom had a walk-in shower with one of those removable showerheads on a hose. Once she had rinsed all the sunscreen off and conditioned her hair, she grabbed her pink razor and shaved her legs from ankle to hip. Then she turned her back to the spray and lathered her entire crotch with fresh shaving cream. Carefully she began whisking away the edges of her curly brown bush. After an initial pass, she grabbed the showerhead and aimed it directly at her vulva to rinse away the foam and loose hair.

'Wow,' she thought as the hot water blasted her crotch. 'That's nice!'

Upon closer inspection she realized she did not like the shape of her remaining pubes, so she again lathered herself with shaving cream. This time she was more deliberate, scraping the razor in precise strokes until her outer labia and the soft folds around her clitoris were completely bald. Then she carefully trimmed the remaining hair into a narrow vertical smudge well above her clit.

When she set the razor down and ran her fingertips over the slimy denuded folds of her sex she realized she was seriously aroused. She loved the smooth feel of freshly shaved skin. It was not quite as good as when she got a wax, but since she did not know where to get such a treatment here in town yet shaving would have to suffice.

Tiffany leaned one shoulder against the tile wall and manipulated the big showerhead until hot water was blasting her clit. She held the folds of her outer labia apart with two fingers and closed her eyes as the pleasure hit her.

"Hmm... God that's nice!" she whispered.

Her body had become hypersensitive during the months since she had last had sex, and lately its hunger for release had been startling.

Three months ago all hell had broken loose back home because her parents found out she had used the last of the money in her college loan account as a deposit on a boob job. Her boyfriend, of course, had been the one who convinced her to make that poor decision, but, as her parents had reminded her a million times since then, she was ultimately responsible.

They forbade her to have the procedure, which would have cost thousands more, and the plastic surgeon's office said the deposit was non-refundable. It was a total waste. She would still have to pay back the entire loan on top of all the other debts she had accrued during four years of college.

Her parents were apoplectic, citing not only the deposit but also her choice of boyfriend and, in fact, all her recent friends, as evidence that she lacked judgment and had not learned anything during her four expensive years away at college. 

To say the least, it had been a demoralizing few months since then.

Her grandmother's offer to take her in had seemed like a good idea to everyone. Tiffany wanted some time away from her parents, to get her head back on straight and rebuild her self-esteem. Her parents wanted her away from her friends and "that damn lecherous creep" (as they called her ex-boyfriend).

The showerhead peppered her entire vulva with hot water. Tiffany circled her clit with two fingers and reflected that she did not, in fact, miss her ex-boyfriend at all. Her parents were right: he was a creep. He had treated her like a piece of property and the sex had been mediocre at best. He never lasted more than a minute and rarely went down on her. The things she had found attractive about him when they first began dating; his Goth lifestyle and serious tattoos, had worn thin quickly. And his persistent critiques of her body had gotten old. Secretly she still wished her boobs were bigger, but she felt pretty confident about the rest of her figure. 

"Hmm! Yesss..." she hissed as her thoughts returned once more to the pleasure emanating from her clit. She was swirling her fingers around and around at exactly the tempo she knew would bring her to orgasm quickly. 

Steadily her voice crept above a whisper as her climax became inevitable: "Hoo, ooh, OH, Uh-HUH!" 

Her vaginal muscles clenched around nothing. The pink bud of her clit throbbed as she blurred it with her fingers. Steaming water blasted the puffy folds of her vulva, encouraging them to swell with even more bloodflow than normal.

She rode this wave of familiar saccharin pleasure, savoring its sharp concentration around her clit, but she knew it would be over quickly. She kept the showerhead and her fingers working in unison to forestall its fade as long as possible.

But this time was different. "Oh my God!" she whined in surprise as a second orgasm compounded her first almost immediately. Her knees caved and she slid down the slick tile wall, still holding the showerhead to her crotch. Her brow furrowed and her mouth held itself agape in a round "O" of pleasure. She shoved two fingers into her vagina and pumped, slapping her palm wildly against her clit. Her mind went blank with pleasure, like a white-out in a snowstorm. She collapsed backward, thrusting her pelvis involuntarily toward her hand again and again. 

An extended, pleadingly high-pitched "Fuuuuuuuck!" escaped her throat.

The second orgasm was a long one, and twice as intense as the first. Halfway through she dropped the showerhead and instinctively pinched her breasts and nipples. Her right hand continued slapping her crotch, hooking its fingers deep inside. A string of raspy squeals panted from her mouth.

When the pleasure finally receded and she opened her eyes, she found herself in a fetal ball in the corner of the shower. She was trembling with endorphins.

"Holy cow," she muttered as she slowly climbed to her feet. "Where did THAT come from?"

She shut off the gushing water and held onto the fixtures for balance. Every inch of her skin was dripping. 

Amid the new silence she heard her grandmother's voice calling from outside the bathroom door: "Are you okay in there Tiff? I thought I heard you fall!"

She instantly covered her mouth with embarrassment. Her eyes went wide. 

"I'm... I'm okay Grandma," she stuttered. "Sorry!"

"Well, it's dinnertime sweetie. Come on out and get dressed!"

"Okay. Thank you! I'll be out in a sec."

SCENE 3

When Tiffany threw one leg over the seat of her grandmother's old bicycle at 7:00AM on Monday morning, she realized her high heels were not going to be a good match for the pedals. 

Despite the dry air and burgeoning sunshine, she also felt chilly in her sundress.

She had tried on several outfits the night before in the privacy of her small guest bedroom, and had chosen this dress because she thought it best matched Doctor Mitchell's instructions. It was summer-y and flirtatious, with a halter-top tied off behind her neck and a short length that exposed her legs to mid-thigh. Its lightweight fabric was un-lined and patterned in blue and white which coordinated well with her eyes. The upper half of the dress was snug enough to flatter her petite curves, while the back flaunted her bare shoulders. Below her hips the dress flared out in a breezy way that swayed as she moved.

She had selected a tan pair of strappy sandals to go with it. They had narrow, three-inch heels that were flattering without being too uncomfortable. Beneath her dress she wore her favorite strapless push-up bra. It was cream-colored, so it didn't show through the thin dress too badly, and she liked the way it added a whole cup-size to her boobs. Particularly in this dress, that made her look quite busty. When she had leaned forward in front of the mirror to do her makeup earlier she had been amused to see a crease of cleavage bulging from the dress' V-shaped neckline. 

A pair of silver hoop earnings, two inches in diameter, swung between her jawline and bobbed hairstyle. She had painted all twenty nails a soft shade of pink and applied lipstick that matched.

Her only other garment was an off-white thong that matched the bra. It was high-cut on the sides and had cute embroidery accents around the waistband, but in front it dipped so low that it barely covered her remaining pubic hair. Aside from the embroidery, the thong was smooth and sheer. She could barely feel it on.

Still straddling the bicycle seat, she bent double to remove her sandals. It was only a fifteen minute ride to Doctor Mitchell's clinic, so she figured she could make it barefoot. She tossed her shoes one at a time into the plastic flower basket attached to the bike's handlebars, along with her small purse. 

The vinyl seat of the bike was wide and well-sprung but still felt risqué against her essentially bare bottom as she pedaled through her grandmother's semi-rural neighborhood. She had to steer the bike with just one hand because she needed the other in her lap to prevent the front of her dress from flying up. What she failed to realize was that the rear of her dress was fluttering in the breeze behind her, occasionally blowing high enough to give the birds and squirrels a glimpse of her ass.

Luckily at that hour the town's human residents rarely travelled the road Tiffany was using, so no traffic accidents were caused by this display.

She trundled her way to work in this fashion, her narrow feet steadily pushing the bike's pedals through their orbits. The last mile was slightly uphill though, and she found herself needing to stand up and apply all 110 pounds of her weight to each stroke in order to maintain momentum. By the time she approached the last intersection she was bent forward over the handlebars, breathing hard and on the verge of perspiring. She put a foot down at the stop sign to catch her breath. 

A shiny sedan arrived just after her. She glanced sideways at it, realizing that the driver had probably had a salacious view coming up the hill behind her. She saw a middle-aged man inside. He was smiling.

Just as she was about to push off again, the car's passenger window motored down and the driver called out: "Excuse me, are you Tiffany?"

She pinched the bike's brakes and put her foot back down. Then she ducked her head to see inside the car.

"Um, yeah?" she answered cautiously.

"Well, hi! I'm Doctor Jacobsen. I work at the clinic with Ian -- I mean Doctor Mitchell."

"Oh, okay. Hi!"

"He's been talking about you non-stop since last week, so when I saw the bike I just guessed it was you."

"Oh."

"You're getting a nice little workout!"

"Yeah. A little bit. Thanks."

"Well, you've only got half a block to go. I'll see you in the parking lot!"

"Okay. Nice to meet you."

The car smoothly whisked away from the stop sign. A hundred yards later it pulled into the clinic's lot. Tiffany re-mounted the pedals and pumped her way along the same route. When she wheeled into the lot, Doctor Jacobsen was standing outside the front door.

She carefully steered around the concrete parking curbs until she reached a small circular island in the middle of the lot where a pine tree had been planted that was narrow enough to lock the bike to. She dismounted and propped the frame against the slender trunk, then collected the chain from the basket. After locking the bike, she stepped into her sandals and bent over to attach their delicate buckles. When she straightened up she fetched her purse and then spun around. 

Doctor Jacobsen was smiling, having clearly enjoyed his view. 

"Gosh, I'm sorry! You didn't have to wait for me," she stammered while hurrying toward him, her skinny heels clacking under her.

"Welcome to Colorado!" he said. 

He was tall and serious looking, Tiffany appreciated as she covered the distance between them. He looked to be in his late forties. His hand felt strong and dry as it swallowed hers in a lingering handshake. He held her gaze, then pulled the glass entrance of the clinic wide open and gestured for her to precede him.

"Thank you!" she said brightly.

Once they were inside, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

"I believe you meant: 'Thank you, sir' or 'Thank you Doctor Jacobsen.' It's important that we maintain a degree of formality in our respective roles here, Tiffany."

"Oh! Yes. Of course Doctor Jacobsen," she said apologetically. "I totally understand... sir."

"Good. Now, take a look around. You'll see we've already started making some changes here in the lobby for you."

"Yes sir," she said as her eyes scanned the waiting room. "It does look different. Much more modern and um... bright."

"Indeed. We all pitched-in over the weekend. I think it's a big improvement but I'll let Doctor Mitchell explain all that. Now, why don't you skitter along to his office to let him know you made it on time?"

"Okay. Thanks sir."

"After you two have said hello I'd like to have a cup of coffee in my office. Say, about 10 minutes from now?"

"Um... alright."

He raised his eyebrows expectantly and waited.

"I mean, alright sir... or Doctor Jacobsen. Gosh, I'm sorry. I guess I'm not used to that yet. Which do you prefer?"

"All in good time, Tiffany. All in good time. By the way, the coffee machine is behind your new desk there... I take mine with milk but no sugar."

"Right, sir. Milk and no sugar. I'll be there in 10 minutes."

"Good. And um... one more thing:"

"Yes sir?"

"I noticed you were barefoot on your bike. The pedals will have made your feet dirty. Please wash them before you come to my office."

Tiffany glanced down at her feet and then back up at Doctor Jacobsen. "Um... okay. I'll do that sir."

"You must keep yourself very, very clean at all times. Is that clear?"

"Yes, of course... Doctor Jacobsen."

With that he shooed her toward the office hallway and, as she turned away, gave her butt an open-handed swat. 

Tiffany jumped and let out a startled yip, but when she glanced back he was already on his way to the mail drop to retrieve his morning newspaper.

She was surprised by his crisp formality and weird insistence about washing her feet, but downright shocked by the blatant way he had just swatted her bottom. Did he not realize, she wondered while walking down the hallway toward the private offices, how old-fashioned that was?

"Tiffany! There you are!" Ian greeted her as soon as she entered his office. He put down his paperwork and approached her warmly, arms outstretched in request of a hug.

"Hi Doctor Mitchell," Tiffany smiled. She had only a moment to prepare before being embraced in a bear hug so tight that it lifted her feet off the floor. "Eeehk," she wheezed as the air was forced from her lungs.

"You just made it," he continued, still holding her aloft. "I was worried you might be late on your first day." 

"No... no, sir," she squeaked, "I wouldn't want to do that."

"Of course not" he said, setting her down on her narrow sandals. "Girls who are late get spanked."

Tiffany grinned broadly and shook her head, assuming this was another of his little icebreaker jokes.

"One spank for every minute... that's the rule!" he continued, moving past her and casually shutting the office door.

Her grin faded. Then her face slackened in disbelief. 

"Oh." 

"I assume you noticed the redecorating on your way in?"

"Yes sir, um... it looks nice," she managed to respond. Her brain was still recoiling from the idea that her new boss expected to spank her if she were ever late to work. It seemed positively medieval. 

"I'll take you out there in just a minute to show you how everything works, but first let's have a look at your outfit. Can you do a little turn for me?"

Tiffany snapped out of her reverie in time to realize she was obediently twirling for him, stutter-stepping her heels in a tight circle. The lower hem of her dress whirled outward, revealing far more thigh than she had ever intended to show at work.

Ian harrumphed quietly and then caught her wrist to stop her.

"Okay, that's enough," he said. "Is this really one of your best outfits? I was hoping you'd try to shine on your first day."

"You... you don't like it?" she asked in a defeated voice, smoothing the thin blue and white fabric down across her hips. She sucked in her already-flat stomach in deference to his gaze. "I was hoping this would be good."

"Well, it's not bad; just not as playful as I was hoping. It would be better if it was shorter and didn't have those straps. Can't you tuck those in or something?"

"What, you mean these?" she asked, running her hands down the front of the halter-top to her boobs.

"Yes, why don't you untie those and tuck them in?"

"Oh, no sir, I think it would just fall off me."

"Nonsense, Tiffany. The dress will stay up on its own. Besides, you're wearing a bra. It's not like you'd be showing anything."

"Sir, I don't --"

"Here, let me help you," he said, abruptly closing the distance between them and reaching for the little bow behind her neck.

Before Tiffany could think of anything to say, her halter top was unfastened and Doctor Mitchell's big hands were stuffing the loose ends of it down her front. He held her dress away from her bra used his other hand to shove the straps in between.

"Wait, wait!" she squawked, hyperaware that her boss' hands were going where they shouldn't. "Lemme do it."

"Okay," he said in a relaxed tone. "Be my guest."

Tiffany spun away from him, trying to preserve some semblance of dignity, but he came up close behind her and peered over her shoulder to watch the show she was putting on. His hands surrounded her waist at its narrowest point and she felt his warmth against her backside.

"Hang on, sir," she said quietly while stuffing the long straps down the front of her dress. "I don't think this is going to stay up on me this way."

"Oh, I think it will. It looks better already."

Tiffany could feel his breath on her bare shoulder. She knew he was looking straight down into her cleavage and she cursed herself for wearing such an aggressively-padded bra. It made her boobs look positively slutty from this angle.

Once she got the last bit of strap material hidden, Doctor Mitchell turned her around and made a show of checking to see if the dress would stay up. He tugged and pulled on the thin fabric, in the process running his hands all over her boobs.

Tiffany twisted and squirmed, trying her best to keep the dress on while indignation turned her face pink.

"That's much better I think," he said before spinning her around to face away from him again. He held her close from behind once more, this time deliberately cupping his hands under her breasts and squeezing them tightly together.

This forced her boobs into such an aggressive display of cleavage that they nearly burst from her bra. 

"Ow!" she squealed. 

"Yes, that really is better; much more flirtatious."

"Sir, you're hurting me."

"Oh, nonsense," he demurred, releasing her suddenly. "A little squeeze never hurt anyone."

Tiffany staggered away. Her boobs were exposed almost all way down to the nipple. They bulged out over the top of her dress like twin flesh-domes, each displaying a narrow vertical tan line.

"Oh sir, look at me! I can't wear it like this!"

"I insist. It's all part of the strategic plan. And I want you to try a little harder tomorrow so we don't have to make all these adjustments, okay?"

Tiffany stomped her feet in protest and tried unsuccessfully to pull her dress higher. These efforts merely served to bounce her half-exposed breasts up and down. 

"But I'm falling out, sir. My... my—"

"That's enough, please. You're fine. Now, let's head out to your new desk so I can get you oriented."

Tiffany maintained a sulky pout as Doctor Mitchell led her by the hand down the hallway back to the lobby. He took long strides, pulling her along behind him at a pace that set her boobs a-jiggle. They made it to the lobby without her dress falling down, but Tiffany realized maintaining any sort of decency was going to be an all-day struggle.

Marge's old wooden desk was gone. The two-dozen padded chairs that made up the waiting area had been rearranged around the perimeter, all facing inward. In the middle of the room a six-inch high dais had been built. It was painted white. Atop the dais stood a see-through Plexiglas podium with a touch-screen computer monitor set into its top surface along with a charging cradle for a wireless headset. Behind the podium was a tall stool with four chrome legs and a padded fabric seat. 




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 01



"This is where you'll sit," Doctor Mitchell said, slapping the stool cushion. She noticed it was pink.

"Um... okay."

"I don't want our patients to get the impression you're hiding behind a big desk, surfing the internet all day like Marge used to do. So, I had this new podium installed. Since it's transparent, you and our patients will always be in full view of each other."

"Yes, we certainly will."

"That way they can get your attention if they need anything, and won't feel ignored."

"Okay. But... um, can I just ask, um, why the stool is so tall sir? And that fabric doesn't really match any—"

"I wanted to make sure you had a clear view of the room, and vice versa. The color was just an afterthought."

"Oh."

"Actually though, I think it draws an appropriate level of attention to your role." 

Tiffany stared blankly and could not think of a response.

"Anyway, come on back this way," he continued, "I'll show you how all these little machines work." 

Against the room's back wall was a low credenza equipped with a multi-purpose printer/fax/scanner/copier, a coffee maker and an espresso machine. A small built-in refrigerator was concealed inside one of the credenza's cabinets.

Through the storm of anxieties swirling in her head, Tiffany felt a sudden pang that she had forgotten something.

"Oh God! I'm supposed to bring Doctor Jacobsen his coffee! What time is it? Can I do that first, sir? Please?"

"Well... alright. I guess you can probably figure these things out on your own anyway."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"I'll be in my office. Come back when you're done with Jacobsen. We have a lot more to go over before the doors open at ten."

"I'll be there as soon as I can!"

With that, Ian left her alone in the lobby. She rushed to activate the coffee machine, but was soon flummoxed. It was a design she had not used before and in her haste she fumbled an open box of stir-sticks to the floor.

They scattered everywhere, including under the credenza, so she had to get on all fours to find them all.

Naturally, just then Doctor Grisholm walked through the clinic's front door. The first thing he saw was a slender young woman in a short dress waving her ass in the air.

"You must be Tiffany!" his voice boomed across the room.

She scrambled to her feet as quickly as her delicate sandals allowed. The top of her strapless bra was peeking out above her dress again. It held her breasts out like an offering, barely concealing their pink areolas.

The next minute was a flurry of greetings, smiles, handshakes and awkward questions about how the coffee machine worked. Doctor Grisholm became a willing tutor and Tiffany found her hands too busy to pull the top of her dress back up. 

Grisholm enjoyed quite an eyeful as he guided her through the machine's many settings until finally the coffee began to perk. Then he pronounced her trained and made a comment about how great it was to have her 'on the team.' 

Tiffany at last hitched up her dress and thanked him profusely before he left. 

Alone again, she waited. The clock on the wall indicated she was already 10 minutes late with Doctor Jacobsen's coffee. When the light on the machine eventually blinked green, she hurriedly poured out a mug and added some 2% milk from the mini-fridge.

Then she clacked down the long hallway past Doctor Mitchell's office, Doctor Grisholm' office and several other rooms. The hot coffee and her breasts wobbled at dissonant frequencies. 

All the way at the end, the last door was emblazed with a sign that read: 'Doctor Ivan Jacobsen.'

She knocked.

"Come in!" a voice commanded.

Tiffany took a deep breath, turned the knob and forced herself to smile.

SCENE 4

Doctor Jacobsen was sitting behind a modern desk in a high-backed office chair. There was a widescreen computer monitor offset to his left and a newspaper spread out before him. A pair of half-framed reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

"Coffee at last," he said.

"Sorry I took so long, Doctor Jacobsen. That machine out there is more complicated than it looks."

He smiled and nodded as Tiffany gently placed the steaming mug into his hand.

"Thank you, Tiffany. I'm afraid you'll find that I am a little bit addicted to coffee."

"That's okay, sir. Just let me know when you need more. I'll be happy to get it."

"Have a seat, please," he continued with a gesture toward the visitor's chairs opposite his desk. "I'd like to learn a little more about you."

Tiffany felt relieved that he did not seem angry about her tardiness. She smiled politely and lowered her bottom into the nearest chair, while again tugging her dress upward to keep her bra from showing. 

He took a first sip, then asked: "Did you find the wash basin in Exam Room 1?" 

"Uh... I don't... What do you mean?"

"To wash your feet."

"Oh gosh, sir! I completely forgot!"

Doctor Jacobsen set down his coffee, peeled off his reading glasses and then rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing loudly in a feint of exasperation.

"Tiffany, Tiffany. I just assumed that was why it took you so long. You said you'd be here in ten minutes, not twenty-five."

"I know. I'm sorry, Doctor."

"Has Mitchell explained the rule about being late?"

"The rule? Well, but—" 

"A spank for every minute. I had argued for two, but he made the final call. If you ask me I think he has a soft-spot for you."

"Um... No, that's not—"

"One for each minute seems more than fair, don't you agree?"

"I... Sir, I... I couldn't possibly—"

"Here," he cut her off, "take a couple of these wet wipes and clean your feet please. Then we can talk about the details of your training."

He pulled a plastic tub of wet wipes from the bottom drawer of his desk. Tiffany accepted it from his hand. Then he put his spectacles back on and resumed reading the paper. She started to rise from her chair, imagining that he wanted her to go somewhere else to scrub her feet, but he told her to stay. 

"Okay, sir," she mumbled as she crossed her legs and began unbuckling her sandals. 

Three silent minutes later she had both feet clean and Doctor Jacobsen had finished his coffee. She bent forward to re-attach her shoes, but he stopped her.

"All done?" he said. "Let me see."

Not knowing what else to do, Tiffany extended one petite foot over his desk. He accepted it in both hands and carefully inspected her bare sole. She found his touch quite ticklish.

"What size shoe do you wear?" he asked.

"Um... a six. Narrow usually."

"Hand me one of those wipes. A fresh one."

When she complied Doctor Jacobsen immediately began scrubbing her foot all over again, far more aggressively than she had done. 

"That tickles! Oh!" she squealed involuntarily.

"Hold still. I've got to get between your toes."

"Oh, Doctor Jacobsen! Why are—?!"

"Put your other foot up here too, please."

Tiffany was squirming in her chair, but managed to place her other naked foot beside the first. This posture made her bottom slide forward. Her short dress crept higher. With her legs aimed straight at Doctor Jacobsen she realized he had a direct view between them. His eyes flitted between her feet, her face and her crotch. An amused smile spread across his face.

Tiffany blushed and gripped the arms of her chair, trying not to squeal too loudly as he scrubbed her feet with first one and then a second wet wipe. The sensation was intense, intimate, and wickedly erotic. Mixed with her awareness that he was looking at her sheer panties and probably seeing how much she had shaved down there, it all conspired to make her libido run amok.

"You have lovely feet," he said as he scrubbed. "You must promise you'll take good care of them."

"Yes," she answered between ticklish flinches. "I'll try, sir."

"Most people take feet for granted, but to me they are the most beautiful part of a woman's body."

Tiffany blushed. Dampness bloomed beneath her underwear. 

Eventually he stopped scrubbing and lifted her feet one at a time to his face, giving them a final close inspection.

"Lovely," he whispered before letting them go.

"Thank you sir," she whispered as she carefully lowered her feet back into her shoes, buckled them up and then straightened her posture.

"Shall we proceed straight to your spanking, or would you like to tell me a little bit more about yourself first?"

Tiffany's eyes widened incredulously. A full ten seconds ticked by before she could formulate her response.

"Um... honestly sir, I don't know how this whole... idea of... spanking me came about. I just—"

"Tiffany, it's all agreed. Didn't you just say Doctor Mitchell had explained this to you?"

"Well he mentioned it, but I didn't think he was serious. I mean, there's no possible reason—"

"Of course there is: office discipline. I understand you're new to all this, and very young, so you have a lot to learn. But the four of us are more experienced and, as your employers, we must pursue the best ways to accelerate your training."

"But sir, I—"

"Yut, yut," he cut her off, raising his hand. "It's not up for discussion. A firm spanking whenever you do something wrong will really punctuate your day. You'll see."

"But—"

"I merely asked if you wanted to tell me a more about yourself first."

"Sir, I... I can't imagine what else we could talk about. I mean, the fact that you guys all think I need spankings is—"

"Well, if it's all you can think about, let's get it over with."

Doctor Jacobsen rose from his chair and walked to Tiffany's side. He stared down at her expectantly, wearing a tight-lipped smile.

"No... I didn't mean it like that. I—"

"Good heavens girl, quit whining! It's only fifteen swats. Now stand up and present yourself so we can move on!"

His seriousness was unmistakable. He really did intend to spank her. A visible shiver ran through Tiffany's body. She stared up at him, eyes huge and growing moist. Her lower lip began to pout.

"Come on, girl. Up! You may bend over my desk... panties down of course."

A guttural sob burst from her mouth. Color bloomed rampantly across her neckline and face, hiding her freckles. Her features scrunched together. A single tear slid down her cheek. 

"There's no call for drama, dear. My spankings are quite harmless. And I know you don't want to disappoint everyone on your first day, do you?"

She shook her head.

"Okay then," he said soothingly, "Up you come."

He lifted her by the arm until she was standing. Then he hauled the chair away from behind her. 

Tiffany stood as still as she could, but her knees betrayed her fear by knocking together. She could not take her eyes off Doctor Jacobsen's face. He looked so calm. She searched his expression for any possible reassurance.

"Why don't you take a step forward, right up against my desk?" he encouraged her.

"Okay, but..." Tiffany began while shuffling forward until the desk's edge dented the front of her thighs. "Just don't do it too hard, okay? Please?"

"Raise your dress, dear. You'll be fine."

Tiffany let out another short sob, quieter than the first. Her hoop earrings shook around her face. Gradually she curled her pink fingernails into the flared part of her dress and lifted.

"That's good, Tiffany; up around your waist. Now bend right the way over for me..."

She felt a flurry of panic traverse her nervous system as she gathered her dress higher and higher. Once her hips were bare, she tightened her grip around the slack material, pulling it forward to completely expose her bottom.

She felt Doctor Jacobsen's hand take a soft grip on her nearest butt cheek and squeeze. 

"That's a good girl," he said softly. "Bend farther over."

She reacted by looking back at him, but she also tipped forward a little.

In genuine admiration he continued, "You certainly do have nice glutes. They're very round."

His hand tightened around her left butt cheek, tugging it upward.

Her lower back arched reflexively into his touch. She blinked several times, still looking over her shoulder. He was staring at her ass.

She felt his hand grip her opposite cheek. His fingers tensed as if measuring her firmness.

Something shifted within her. His intermittent squeezes continued, but she looked away. Part of her did not want to remember any more of this than necessary. Her focus stretched to the view outside the window and eventually fixed on the branches of a lone conifer reacting to a breeze. She identified with that small tree, feeling similar waves of reactivity lashing through her body. 

None of this was what she had expected her first workday to be like.

Doctor Jacobsen's other hand touched the middle of her back, encouraging her to bend the rest of the way over. She realized she was holding her breath. It came out in a long sigh as she laid her torso onto the desk's writing surface. His open newspapers crinkled beneath her chest. The side of her face came to rest on an article about stem cells. 

She closed her eyes when he flipped the gathered material of her sundress up onto her back. Then she felt a gentle tugging as his fingers worked their way under the elastic of her thong and began dragging it lower.

A muddled whimper escaped her throat and she squeezed her eyes tight shut as her panties slipped to her knees.

"My, what tan lines you have, Tiffany. Your swimsuit must be quite a spectacle."

"No, I... I did that in private, sir. I would never wear a suit like—" 

"They look nearly pornographic."

"That wasn't my... Are you sure my panties need to be down... sir?"

"Oh yes. Most definitely."

Doctor Jacobsen silently knelt behind her, intent on observing every inch of her nakedness. He gripped her uppermost thighs and gently pried them apart.

"Sir, I..."

"Relax. We're just getting to know each other here. You have lovely legs by the way; do you know that?"

"Thank you sir, but—"

Her breath caught sharply as his hand slid between her legs and cupped her sex. She felt his fingers trace a line from her labia backwards, grazing her perineum and anus and then the seam of her ass.

"Jesus, sir!" she squealed, clenching her glutes reflexively around his fingers.

"You did a good job shaving too. It shows-off your anatomy very well."

"Oh my God, sir!" she whined, whipping her face around just as he was standing up. "Why are you looking down there?"

"Are you ready for your spanking now?" he asked, ignoring her. His left hand flattened itself across her tailbone, pressing down on her sacroiliac dimples. His right hand lingered across her butt cheeks, gently stroking the pale skin of her gluteal crease.

Tiffany winced at her own ticklishness. Her jaw clenched. She sucked air through her teeth. She realized she was barely able to keep her eyes focused and felt incapable of speech. Her body was aflame with conflicting instincts and her crotch, for reasons she could not yet imagine, was suddenly soaking wet. Her vocabulary lacked any honest answer to his question.

"That looks like a yes," he said quietly while drawing his right hand back.

"No, wait--"

WHACK!!

"AAAH! Ow, ow, ow, ow... OW!"

"Tiffany, the correct response is: 'one, sir.'"

"Stings! Oh my God that stings! Don't—"

WHACK! 

"AIIE! Not so hard, sir, please!"

"You're still at zero unless you count them, Tiffany."

"Just wait! Okay? Pl—"

WHACK!

"AHH! Don't! Don't do that spot again, please!"

"Have you forgotten how to count?"

"Three, sir!"

WHACK!

"Ow!! Goddam it!"

"Since when do you start counting at three?"

"FUH-! God! One, sir!"

"Thank you."

WHACK!

Tiffany yelped as his hand smacked her right butt cheek for the first time. Her left was already covered by four overlapping pink handprints. 

There was a moment of silence. She gritted her teeth against the new source of sting.

"Two, sir," she managed finally.

Jacobsen's big hand lifted high and then landed across her left cheek with a resounding 'WHACK!'

"OW!!! No! Please don't hit that side anymore! Please!"

"And that was number....?" 

"Um! Three, sir!"

"Thank you."

WHACK!

He was alternating now, so it was her right cheek this time. Her thighs trembled. Her knees flexed. But her ass was so taut that it barely quivered.

"Four, sir!" 

Now both sides glowed pink.

"Good girl."

His hand came down low, just to the left of her pussy. WHACK!

Tiffany gasped and coughed. "Fuck that stings! Shit! Five, sir!"

WHACK!

"Six! Six, sir. Wait don't—"

WHACK!

"Fuck! UH! Seven, sir. Please it's too—"

WHACK!

"OW!! Sev—I mean eight, sir!"

"You're halfway. Would you like a little break?"

"Yes, please! God yes!!"

She tried to stand, but his hands stopped her.

"Don't get up. Stay right there. I'll give you a little rub. I think you'll find the sting short-lived."

Jacobsen stepped away to a cabinet behind his desk and retrieved a large plastic jar of shea butter.

"I bought this just for you," he said with a smile as he returned to Tiffany's side and opened the container. 

She was desperate for any form of relief, especially on her more-abused left cheek, so she did not protest as she watched him scoop out large dollop of the moisturizer.

"Ooaaahhh..." she cooed as the greasy lotion cooled her cheeks. He smeared it all over the pink handprints and then deliberately dipped his lubricated fingers to enjoy the soft feel of her innermost thighs and parted creases. Soon her entire posterior was glistening with reflections of the overhead lights.

"Such young skin," he whispered as his hand caressed her flesh. He could not resist running his fingers over her shaved genitals again. 

She let out a gasp and raised her head from the newspaper. Her wetness was obvious to them both, far more slippery than the shea butter. 

"Sir, please don't..." she whispered. But her eyes fluttered and her mouth stopped mid-thought.

He slid his fingers to her clitoris and squeezed. She let out a happy whimper even though her head shook side to side. Her hands scrunched up the newspaper beneath her.

"You like that?" he asked, circling three lubricated fingertips around her clit.

"Ohh... hnn-uh!"

"Yes, I can see that you do. And how about this?"

He slid a finger into her vagina, but only up to its second knuckle.

"Please don't do that. Oh, sir..."

"Don't worry, Tiffany. It's okay. Just let your body respond."

She tried to speak but nothing comprehensible came out. Her vulva was being swirled and stroked and prodded by his fingers. Their expertise rendered her dumb. Her arousal's sudden intensity shamed her, fracturing her will to resist. 

Pleasure, and the urgency for more, overrode her agency.

"Such a snug little body," he mused quietly, "And so eager. Yes... you and I may need to spend a great deal of time together."

"MM! Mnn! Mah!" she panted as his fingers slithered all around her clitoris. Then his thumb buried itself into her.

She cried out. Her tailbone arched to meet him.

"Yes, I think you will do nicely here. Why don't you stand up now?"

Jacobsen pulled her upright by one wrist and spun her to face him. His slippery right hand stayed in her crotch from behind while his left arm pulled her close. Before she could even open her eyes, his lips pressed themselves to hers in a fierce kiss. His tongue drove into her mouth.

Alarm bells were sounding inside her skull, but she accepted him. The eroticism of that moment, of being forcefully kissed and touched by one of her new bosses only moments after meeting him, erased everything else from her mind. Resisting never occurred to her. 

He squeezed her body to his, stacking her boobs against his thoracic diaphragm. Her arms were bent double and trapped between them. Her face reclined. 

What his hand was doing to her crotch felt incredible and something stiff was against her stomach. Her brows furrowed. A high-pitched moan escaped her mouth. It was all so terribly naughty.




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 01



He moved his hand to her front and rubbed her slippery clit in tight circles, faster and faster, making her knees weaken with pleasure. Then he hooked two fingers inside her and began shaking her pubic bone. Her short moans escalated, vibrating into his open mouth. 

Her panties fell to her ankles.

Just as she was about to cum, he broke contact and spun her away, bending her over the desk again. 

"WHACK!"

"AH! Fuck Doctor Ja—"

"Say nine, Tiffany."

"Nine, sir!"

WHACK!

"OW! Ten, sir!"

"Good girl. See how fun this is?"

WHACK!

"Yes! Eleven, sir!"

WHACK!

"Twelve, sir!"

WHACK!

"Thirteen, sir!" 

Tiffany's jaw was shivering, chattering her molars until she sucked her lower lip behind her front teeth to quiet them. She panted heavily through her nose, emitting little squeaks of anticipation. Her face was wet and mottled pink.

WHACK!

"Fourteen!"

"Just one more, right?"

"Mm-Hmm! Yes sir!"

His hand strayed to her crotch again, dipping between her inner thighs and then scooping upward to her impatient sex. Her legs danced around and she arched her pelvis higher. He ran his thumb smoothly into her vagina, all the way in, as his fingers scissored her clit.

A guttural cry escaped her. Her body clenched on his buried thumb. She felt like her clit was the size of a golf ball. It was so sensitive she panicked, swinging her arms wildly. Newspapers flew everywhere along with pens and other sundries that had decorated his desk. The empty coffee mug shattered on the floor.

He pressed her lower back down and started banging his thumb into her, clapping her clit.

Tiffany cursed and came. Clear fluid gushed from her pussy, soaking his hand and the backs of her thighs.

"Oh my God you little slut!" he exclaimed as she writhed under him. He had not seen a woman orgasm so strongly in decades. 

Tiffany's head twisted back and forth, flailing her short hair and earrings. Her buttocks clenched repeatedly. She cried out as if in pain.

Amidst all this, there was a knock on the door.

Doctor Jacobsen kept fucking her with his hand for several moments and then paused to savor the ebbing contractions of her small vagina. He watched as her nubile body gradually calmed. Her knees ceased their restless fluttering.

The knock repeated. This time they both heard it. 

"Who is it?" he asked loudly.

"It's me."

Doctor Jacobsen chuckled. He returned his gaze to the glossy, handprinted bottom between his hands and called out: "Come in!"

Tiffany, through her delirium, discerned that someone new was about to enter the room behind her. She tried to stand, but Doctor Jacobsen kept her firmly pinned over his desk. Post-release endorphins zigzagged through her nervous system. Her ass cheeks felt aflame.

She felt his thumb withdraw as the door opened.

"God... DAMN!" a new male voice said. "She's in trouble already?"

"Yes Doctor Adams, this..." Doctor Jacobsen answered proudly, "is Tiffany. As you can see she's quite a peach. And we're just about to finish up her first disciplinary lesson, aren't we girl?"

Tiffany twisted her head to see this new person, Doctor Adams. She caught a glimpse of sandy hair and a tan face moving across the room behind her, but then he disappeared to the right of her upturned bottom and was out of view.

"Tiffany, I asked you a question." Doctor Jacobsen prodded.

"Sorry sir."

"Do you remember where we are?"

"Yes sir. Just one more, sir."

"That's right. Which side would you prefer?"

"Oh, um... um... my right, please. It's not as s—" 

WHACK!

"-ORE! Oww! Thank you... sir. That's fifteen."

"Very good, Tiffany. One for each minute you were late. Now your bottom has a nice warm glow. I think that should serve as a good reminder. Don't you?"

"Yes sir. I won't be late ever again. I promise."

"Good. Doctor Adams? Do you think she looks sufficiently reminded?"

"I'd say so, yes. What a cutie. Do you mind if I...?"

"Not at all."

Tiffany felt a new hand grip the back of her buttered thigh and slide upward to her sensitive ass. She set her forehead onto the desktop with a 'thunk' at the realization that yet another man was now fondling her.

Doctor Adams' hand squeezed her naked ass, one cheek at a time. Then he slid his fingers between and gently traced the slippery folds of her sex.

"My God she's soaking wet. What did you do to her?" he asked.

"Oh, not much," Doctor Jacobsen answered nonchalantly. "But I agree, she did seem to enjoy it in the end."

"I'll say! Her labia are small but they're totally enflamed."

Tiffany wanted to die. Nothing in her wildest dreams could have anticipated this level of humiliation. She rocked her head back and forth against the table, unable to conjure any defense of her self-worth.

She felt Doctor Adams' second hand join-in. They pried her throbbing cheeks wide apart.

"Wow," he spoke solemnly, "What a tidy little package. How old are you, Tiffany?"

She lifted her head and shivered at the novel sensation of two thumbs astride her anus, stretching her soft skin in opposite directions. "I'm... I'm twenty-two, sir."

"Have you ever tried anal intercourse?"

"God sir, no!"

"Well, that's a shame. You have a perfect ass for it."

She had no idea what might happen next. Her pulse thudded loudly in her neck and temples. Her anus puckered, tightening itself into a miniscule knot as the two doctors looked on.

They exchanged a glance. Both grinned.

Doctor Jacobsen was next to speak, finally lifting his hand off her lower back: "Tiffany, you may turn around now and greet Doctor Adams properly."

She straightened up so quickly that she got a head-rush and nearly lost her balance. The lower half of her dress fell back into position, covering her naked hips. Her thong remained at her ankles though. She shuffled her feet around. 

Her push-up bra stood well clear of her sagging dress, holding her young boobs daringly aloft. Two pink half-moons of areola showed above it. Her hard nipples protruded obviously outward, barely concealed by its top edge. 

Doctor Adams offered her a damp handshake. She accepted his grip while attempting to tug her dress upward.

"Nice to finally meet you, Tiffany," he said, "I'm Doctor Adams."

"Thank you sir. It's nice to meet you too. Sorry it had to be... like this. I'm not—" 

"Nonsense," he grinned, pumping her forearm up and down so hard that her breasts shook, "I can't imagine a better way to get to know our new office girl. Welcome to the team!"

Tiffany cringed but tried to keep smiling. She realized that Doctor Adams was by far the best looking of all four partners. He looked like a forty-year-old Robert Redford.

"Um... okay," she smiled weakly. Had her face not already been fiercely blushing, it would have begun to now. His steel-grey eyes bored into her, bracketed by crow's feet that creased his tan. His teeth were clean and white but irregular enough to look honest. Scattered grey hair seasoned his honey-colored locks. His hand felt big and solid around hers.

After a moment of silence he broke their gaze and addressed Doctor Jacobsen: "Do you mind if I take Tiffany for a while?"

"Of course not," Jacobsen said. "We're all done."

"Great. Come on, sweetheart. Let's go to my office."

He allowed Tiffany to pull her thin panties up, but then quickly towed her from the room by one hand. Her shoes clacked along unevenly behind him as they navigated two turns into the room next door.

SCENE 5

Adams shut the door.

His office was messier and more comfortable than Doctor Jacobsen's. The blinds were pulled down and the only artificial light came from a brass desk lamp with a green swivel-shade. 

He led Tiffany around behind his wide built-in desk, rolled his chair away and brushed a pile of mail back from the writing surface.

"Have a seat," he encouraged her, gesturing to the cleared spot. 

Tiffany carefully inched her still-glowing bottom up onto his desk and scooted backward, tugging the lower hem of her dress down to cover as much of her thighs as she could. Doctor Adams flopped into his chair and looked her up and down. Then he rolled forward and lifted her shoes to his lap. Tiffany tried to cross her legs but he caught her bare calves and stopped her.

"You looked pretty excited in there. How's your first day going so far?"

"Uh, it's... its' not what I... I didn't expect you guys to—"

"The spankings? I know. I told them that was crazy."

"Really?"

"Of course, I mean... this isn't Victorian England."

"Exactly! Right? Why didn't they—?"

"I got outvoted three to one. So... here we are."

"No, it's gotta stop! I'm not like, okay with it... sir."

"Well you seemed pretty lit-up when I saw you."

Tiffany looked away. She could not admit that to herself yet, let alone to this gorgeous man holding her knees slightly apart.

"I think your body has different ideas," he continued soothingly, "about what it enjoys."

"NN-mm," she shook her head, still unable to look at him. "No it doesn't. You guys are doctors. You're my employers. You can't just..."

Doctor Adams moved his hands to her thighs and pushed her dress back softly.

She tensed. 

"This all seems very strange to you, I know," he said quietly. "And since it's your first day, you're probably feeling extra sensitive but I think... what you need now is some way to calm your nerves."

"Nn-mm." "This will make your whole day seem easier," he whispered as his elbows spread her legs apart and his face dove to her crotch. Tiffany slumped backward, gasping loudly as his mouth latched onto her swollen vulva and sucked her clit and labia through the sheer panties. 

"Oh Doctor! What are you—? Stop! Oh... God!" 

She clawed at the desk behind her, trying to scoot away, but he pulled her hips firmly closer. His mouth attacked her pussy so adeptly that her panties may as well have been invisible. 

She struggled but his hands bent her legs back until her feet were over his shoulders. She tipped backward, onto her elbows.

Within seconds Tiffany's neck slackened as her groin endured a flood of ecstatic sensations. It had been ages since anyone had gone down on her, and after her gushing orgasm in Doctor Jacobsen's office her body was well-primed for more.

She stopped fighting altogether. Adams took a breath and yanked her underwear to one side. Then he immersed his tongue inside her folds, licking and sucking every millimeter of her bare sex into his mouth. Tiffany collapsed completely and grabbed his head. 

"Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God..." she panted. He was obviously an expert at this.

His hands pushed her legs farther back, folding her knees to her chest until her shoes were inverted high above her face. Her toes curled-up tight. 

He peeled her panties out from under her and gathered them into a rope around her knees, enabling him to keep her legs pinned back with just one hand. His free hand then took up a position alongside his chin, thumb extended to probe her labia. Moments later he buried that long digit deep inside her, rocking it back and forth while her clitoris grew inside the vacuum of his mouth.

Tiffany's little body squirmed against his face. Her tailbone lifted off the desk.

He shivered his mouth against her, slurping her folds between his lips while his thumb probed her narrow depths. 

For Tiffany, each successive minute of this was more ecstatic than the last. Finally she let out a desperate and plaintive cry.

Juices from her interior mingled with his saliva and trickled down the crack of her ass. The tempo of his mouth and thumb accelerated.

Her fists balled. One strafed his desk while the other lodged itself between her teeth. 

Her clit was being pinched between his lips and shaken. His tongue flicked like a rabbit's foot. Then he wiggled his index finger into the slippery ring of her anus.

She felt all her orifices tighten at once. His finger push deeper and wiggled.

He chose that moment to suck her clitoris extra hard.

She screamed as the climax hit her. It arrived with the force of a rogue wave, crushing everything in its path. Her jackknifed body quaked and wriggled. Her breathing stopped.

As she came Doctor Adams carefully squeezed a second finger into her ass. Still he flicked and sucked her clit unabated.

A string of wavering sobs burst from her throat. Her hips jerked under him. Fresh secretions oozed from her. 

Finally she grabbed his hair and shoved him away. It was too much. 

He raised his face, sucked in a lungful of air and surveyed her body.

Her outer labia were puffy and gaping. Her delicate inner petals were bright pink and awash in lubricant. The head of her clitoris held itself high, entirely too swollen now to fit beneath its narrow hood.

His fingers remained half-inside her slippery butt, gradually creeping outward.

"How's that for a warm welcome?" he asked through a greedily glistening grin.

Tiffany rocked her head from side to side, unable to speak. Eventually she reached down and pushed his hand from her ass. He obligingly removed his fingers, but kept her legs pinned back for a moment in order to watch her pale anus recover its pucker.

Then he released her knees and sank back in his chair. For the next dozen seconds he simply admired the sprawled beauty lying atop his desk.

Her slender legs were slack, draped wide apart. Her sandals were heel-to-heel in front of her butt. Her nipples pointed at the ceiling, having completely escaped her bra.

Her petite, carefully-shaven pussy was in full bloom; slick and aglow.

She tried to sit up, but only managed to get to her elbows. Her eyes were half-lidded. Her feet slipped off the desk and fell, drawing her legs somewhat closed. She gazed at him sleepily. 

He stood up and eclipsed the distance between them in a single step. She did not move other than to track his approach. He bent over, cupped her face in both hands and pulled her into a kiss. 

Tiffany was so far gone she answered his tongue's probing requests with eagerness, kissing him back as though he were a newfound boyfriend. Her heart fluttered in her chest.

None of this made sense. She was hooking-up with another of her new bosses, giddy after a pair amazing orgasms. Anything seemed possible now.

It was nine fifteen in the morning.

*



Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 02



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! 

*****

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. 

Doctor Mitchell's tutorial on how to use the computer software had been effective despite its hurried brevity and as the morning wore-on she began to feel almost competent in her new role. A steady stream of people came and went without too many gaffes. 

Perhaps because of her prior restaurant jobs she remained reflexively cheerful and upbeat in her interactions with the clinic's patients. They were mostly elderly and uniformly polite. The old women took particular interest in her as their town's newest arrival. They all wanted to hear the details of her move from Boston and asked neighborly questions about her grandmother's health. 

The male patients were fewer in number and far less talkative (no surprise there), but Tiffany did catch a few of them eavesdropping and staring as she moved about the room. The way her dress and bra collaborated to showcase her athletic legs and medium-sized breasts seemed to keep the men in high spirits despite occasional delays caused by her novice scheduling mistakes. In any case their ogling remained subtle enough as to seem almost quaint compared to her bosses' earlier molestations and Tiffany found herself mildly flattered by it.

The only moments that truly abused her modesty were when she dismounted the stool. Its fabric cushion was so grippy that it pulled the rear of her dress well clear each time she slid to her feet. No matter how quickly she smoothed it down she felt sure the patients, if they looked at just the right moment, were catching glimpses of uppermost thighs and bare flanks. 

The male visitors' enjoyment of this show inflated steadily throughout the morning. They began smirking at one another across the room and colluding to have her dismount the stool as often as possible. They also noticed how the low mini-fridge under the credenza forced her to bend far over, so they all started asking for ice in their refills and fresh milk for their coffee. Each time she reached inside the little refrigerator a veritable mile of youthful leg revealed itself to the room. The geriatric men coughed into their fists and the middle-aged ones had to adjust their pants. 

Notwithstanding these antics, Tiffany could not escape the overriding notion that her sexualized interactions with Doctors Mitchell, Jacobsen and Adams had been a dangerous beginning to her first day on the job. She decided she needed to talk to someone about all that, to get an outside perspective and hopefully some sort of advice. She glanced at the wall-clock whenever she could, counting down the hours remaining until her lunch-break at one o'clock.

During these hours the four doctors behaved vastly more professionally. Doctor Jacobsen lived up to his self-avowed coffee addiction, needing three more mugs delivered to his office. Each time she knocked on his door her stomach tickled with anxiety and her gluteal muscles tightened with the recollection of his spanking. But he never once alluded to anything out of the ordinary and Doctors Mitchell, Adams and Grisholm likewise remained well-behaved. For the balance of the morning they all appeared genuinely focused on their patients.

At one o'clock, after the morning's last patient departed, Ian locked the front door.

"You did alright for your first shift," he said with a pleasant smile. "Feel free to ride into town or whatever... just please be back before two. We have fewer appointments this afternoon, so it should be easier. And if it gets too quiet I have a little project you can work on at your podium between patients, okay?"

"Okay," Tiffany replied as calmly as she could. "Thanks Doctor Mitchell."

She was desperate to escape and call Anabelle, her best friend back home in Boston whom she trusted more than anyone else. She slid down off her stool and headed outside into the bright sunlight, pulling her little purse over her shoulder as the glass front door squeaked shut behind her.

When she reached the tree in the middle of the parking lot where her grandmother's bike was locked, she heard the clinic door squeak once more. She glanced back and saw Doctor Adams climbing into the cab of an early Toyota Land Cruiser that appeared to have been recently restored. Once the engine started, he drove from the lot without looking at her.

Her brows furrowed with an instinctive suspicion that he had avoided her intentionally. But she forced herself to push that idea away, wholly unprepared for what it might reveal about her own feelings. 

Instead she stooped to unlock her bike.

Unbeknownst to her, the remaining three doctors stood just inside the door, watching as she bent over. They chatted conspiratorially.

Tiffany stepped over the bike's low-slung middle bar after placing the cable lock into its plastic flower basket that hung from the handlebars. She then untucked and re-tied her halter top, backing her butt onto the nose of the seat to keep the bike upright as she did so. Immediately the sun-scalded vinyl warmed her crotch through the thin dress. Hurrying, she finished a bow behind her neck, grabbed the handlebars and shoved off, keeping her sandals on in deference to Doctor Jacobsen's predilection for clean feet and standing on the pedals to keep her privates from being singed.

Memories of the morning's events had her shaking her head in disbelief as she pedaled to the end of the block. From there, she coasted down the long gentle hill that led toward the old part of town. 

Gliding along on tiptoe, speed fluttered her short hair and dress, intermittently flashing her thong-bisected rump. 

She grew more and more abashed as her recollections congealed around a single, unifying theme.

"Bunch of perverts," she whispered. "And the worst part is they made me enjoy it!"

Eventually she slowed the bike to a halt outside a country market several blocks beyond the bottom of the hill. Faux Old-West stenciling on the store windows advertised: 'Deli, ice cream, coffee, groceries, ATM.' Outside were two wooden picnic tables. A trio of school-age boys in baseball uniforms sat at one of them, eating candy and jostling over a handheld video game. 

Tiffany leaned her bike against the side of the store and went in. A few minutes later she was back out carrying a bottle of water and a chicken-salad sandwich on a paper plate. The three boys were gone, so she lowered her bottom gingerly onto the splintery bench at the shaded end of one table and got out her phone. 

The air held a lingering haze of diesel soot from a coal-rolling pickup that had just departed.

Anabelle answered on the second ring with an excited: "Hi! Aren't you supposed to be at your new job?"

"Hey," Tiffany said. "Yeah, I'm just on my lunch break. How're you?"

"Meh... SO bored. Everyone misses you and it's disgustingly humid. I can barely BREATHE."

"Huh."

"Anyway, tell me: What's it like? Is it cool?"

"Um... well... no, actually. Not really."

"Uh-oh. What's up?"

"Nothing, it's just... " 

"I can hear it in your voice. Are you okay?"

"Well, I need your advice, okay? But you have to promise not to tell anyone."

Through a giggle, Anabelle asked: "N'kay, what'd you do?"

"Come on, I'm being serious!"

"Sure, I won't tell. Now dish."

"No I mean it. I just need you to be real for a sec, okay? Please." 

"Alright, alright. I promise."

"Okay, so..." Tiffany began, swiveling her head in a precautionary scan for eavesdroppers. "You remember how I told you there are four docs at this place, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well... I think - no, it turns out at least three of them are total pervs."

"Seriously? What, like, d'they hit on you or something?"

"Yeah. Majorly."

"Oh my God, I love it. Tell me everything! What did they do?"

"It's not funny."

"Okay, okay. Sorry. Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

"Well? What happened?"

"So, um... it's way too weird to even explain but... there was definitely some... some like, major touching."

"Ew! Gross. Are you gonna report it?"

"That's why I'm calling. I mean, what should I do?"

"Well, Jesus. So... obviously you should quit. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, but there're no other jobs here. None. And as you know I'm broke."

"Okay, um... what about the fourth guy? Didn't you say it was only three of them?"

"Yeah. The other guy didn't do anything weird yet but I only met him for like, two seconds. I think they're all classmates from medical school or something. I doubt he'll listen to me over his buddies."

"God! That sucks. I'm sorry Tiff'!"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Do you need me to call the cops or something?"

"No."

"Or your parents? Ooh, do you think they'd let you come home?!"

"Hell no. I don't wanna talk to them anyway. Especially about this."

"Okay so... um. Well, I mean... what are you gonna do? You hafta quit, right?"

"Yeah, maybe. The thing is..." Tiffany paused to take a sip of water, unsure if she wanted to continue.

"What?"

"Well... one of them is... kinda cute."

"Oh, get out! You can't be serious right now."

"I know, I know."

"Please! You are NOT that desperate. They must all be like, what? Over forty or something?"

"Yeah but I'm telling you, he's hot."

"No way. You cannot go there. And don't you EVEN tell me he's married."

"He's not... No, look... it's not like that."

"Then what? Details."

Tiffany twisted around, scanning her surroundings. She shielded her eyes in a mannerism any poker player would recognize as a 'tell' that she was about to lie.

"It's just... um, like... it was more than friends but not, you know, not totally awful."

"Not awful? Are you high?! Oh wait - holy shit. You kissed him didn't you?"

"No! It's... ugh. Okay... maybe, but I was totally just a passenger!"

"Oh-em-gee, and you enjoyed it!"

"I pushed him off me. I left the room!" 

"It's your first day! You can't go around kissing your boss!"

"I didn't!"

"Yes you did. And now you like him, don't you?"

There was a long silence before Tiffany spoke again: "You know who he looks like? Robert Redford. Remember that movie... um, God, now I can't remember the title. Anyway, like in the eighties. He looks like that."

"Way too old for you. So, SO old! You know that stupid skeleton from Tales of the Crypt? He's younger!"

"Shut... up!" she laughed. "Nothing's gonna happen anyway. I just need to know whether I can keep working there or not. I mean, if they're already being all sketchy with me... it's only going to get worse, right?"

"For sure."

"So I should quit."

"Totally."

Another segment of silence ensued. Tiffany took a bite of her sandwich.

In a suburban bedroom Northwest of Boston, Anabelle lay stomach-down across her duvet, propped on her elbows and staring at her laptop. Her bare feet sliced the air above her butt. To combat the heat, loose cotton short-shorts and a sporty athletic bra were the entirety of her outfit. Her long ponytail was clipped to the top of her head in a wobbly loop. She accidently moused-over a pop-up ad and sighed.

Tiffany finished chewing, swallowed and said: "What if I stay one more day?" 

"Why?"

"I dunno. Just in case it gets better? I could really use the money 'Bella, and this morning after the patients starting arriving everyone was really nice. It was only like, earlier, before the place opened that they were so crazy with me."




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 02



"Well... does it feel safe?"

"Um... yeah. Sort of. They're just, like, dirty old men, you know? Not axe-murderers. I mean, they're doctors. How bad could it be?"

"Uh-huh... But you can't let them grope you," Anabelle said, rolling her skinny body over to gaze at the ceiling of her bedroom. She held the phone to her cheek and tried to imagine her friend's circumstances. "That is like, so wrong."

"I know," Tiffany answered. "But... I'll talk to them. Maybe they just don't realize it or something."

"Pfff! Yeah, now you really ARE high. And you're totally crushing on that one dude. Don't deny it."

"Well... so?"

"So it's not a game. You don't know anybody out there except your grandma. What's she gonna do? Swoop in an' save you the minute one of these geezers sticks a hand up your skirt? Not likely."

"Well duh, Captain Obvious. But I... I just- What do you think about one more day? Just to see if it gets better?"

"And then what? If nothing happens tomorrow are you gonna keep working there?"

"Maybe. If nothing happens... then sure. I mean, that's the whole point, right?"

"They're gonna keep hitting on you. Isn't that all you need to know?"

"Ugh! I know, it's just... just lemme try. I can handle it."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. I'll talk to them. Let them know it's not okay. And tomorrow I'll be more prepared."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. I think so. Anyway, I gotta finish my lunch and get back. I can't be late. You'd die if I told you what happens then."

"What?!"

"Nothing. Forget I said that."

"Jesus. Okay. Well... call me tonight. I'll be around."

"Okay. Thanks 'Bella. Love you!"

"You too. Be safe."

"Yeah-yeah I will. Bye!"

"Bye!"

SCENE 7

Tiffany found herself back at the clinic a short while later, having received a helpful ride up the hill from Doctor Grisholm. He had recognized her pedaling along, pulled over and loaded her bike into his white pick-up to save her the trouble. 

He had not said much during the five minutes they'd shared in his truck's cab and she was unsure what to make of his comparative reserve. Perhaps, she hoped, he was just embarrassed by his partners' behavior and was trying to be extra professional to compensate. Whatever the reason, his reticence seemed scarily perceptive. She sensed he was absorbing Terabytes of information about her without even trying. She tried to make small-talk but became increasingly self-conscious and clumsy about it, tugging at her fingers and laughing without reason. His dense, un-athletic build revealed nothing and a receding hairline made his pale face resemble the moon. 

She felt relieved when he retreated to his office and left her alone in the lobby.

At precisely two o'clock Ian unlocked the front door. 

The appointment calendar for the afternoon was nearly empty. Tiffany got the first two patients sorted and then found herself with nothing to do. She wiped down the credenza and straightened the lobby chairs, sprayed some air freshener and disinfectant in the lavatory and then washed her hands.

Once atop her stool again, she scratched her fingers through her hair and thought about her conversation with Annabelle. She knew she needed to stand up for herself; but how? Perhaps at the end of the day, she thought, she could get some time alone with Doctor Mitchell. He seemed to be the one most directly responsible for her. Perhaps if she explained very clearly why the rule about spanking her was unnecessary and silly, and also abusive and illegal... maybe he would understand.

Her fingernails dug into her scalp, telegraphing her stress. The very idea of that conversation made her anxious. She recalled her initial interview with him; how he had said her job was to cheer-up the clinic by being playful, approachable and flirtatious... and to keep the four doctors happy and relaxed. She had agreed to all that quite readily, she remembered, and now felt loathe to complain on her very first day.

She sighed and dropped her hands to her neck, discovering that her dress' halter-top was still tied in place. Hastily she undid the bow and tucked the two straps down her front, folding the dress until it ended just above her bra the way Doctor Mitchell wanted.

"Skimpy clothes I can handle," she reassured herself in a whisper. "I just need to convince them not to spank me and..."

She could not bring herself to finish that sentence, wincing at the memory of her own pleasure. She exhaled a shaky breath, trying to keep calm.

"Stop the spankings," she rehearsed quietly, "then everything else will calm down too."

This vague plan gleamed in her mind like a distant tunnel exit but the craving she felt for Doctor Adams was still there, hobbling her psychological headway. She clenched her teeth and rubbed her face with both hands, feeling unready to deal with such a spontaneous fascination. The more she thought about it, the more she realized she had an acute, deep infatuation. It was like he was meant for her.

"God!" she quietly scolded herself. "I can't fall for this guy. I can't! I can't!"

She abandoned her plan to confront Doctor Mitchell that afternoon, too afraid of the upbraiding it might involve. Anyway her memory of his cheerful, off-hand groping didn't inspire much confidence that he might change his views. She promised herself to advocate that cause another time, another way, somehow. 

She looked around the empty room again, searching for a useful task.

Wanting to appear pro-active, she phoned Doctor Mitchell and asked about the special project he had mentioned earlier. 

Within a minute he was at her side, helping her navigate deep into the clinic's file-server on her touchscreen podium. He leaned his left hand on the back of her stool. The inside of his wrist was against her tailbone.

She straightened, unintentionally brushing her bare shoulder against his pectoral.

"Sorry sir," she mumbled, slouching a bit to keep some distance between them. He snugged his wrist more firmly against her backside.

"Here they are," he said, double-clicking a Windows folder named 'Unsorted.' 

Inside that directory, a vast number of .wmv, .avi and .RAR files appeared. All had random alphanumeric names.

"What are those?" she asked.

"Porn scenes. One of my patients lent me an external hard drive full of this stuff a while back, with the idea that we would make them available in the donor room."

Her face blanched.

"Don't look so shocked. We used to keep some dirty magazines around for the guys to use, but everyone seems to want video now."

"Who everyone—Sorry, what's the donor room, sir?"

"For our sperm donors."

"S—wha?"

"We don't have as many as I'd like, but yeah. I thought I mentioned it during your interview. My specialty is reproductive health, so donors that meet certain criteria are highly valuable as far as building a larger practice goes. But we haven't had much luck getting new ones these past few years and most of our regulars are sub-optimal."

"Sub-optimal?"

"Low counts and poor motility."

She blinked.

"Anyway, the problem with this video collection is, as you can see, it's a mess. I already ran a virus scan on the whole thing, but I need you to extract the ones that are still compressed and then rename and categorize them all."

"Uhh..."

"I have an idea of how you should do it, but you'll probably find better ways as you get deeper in."

"Um... yeah, so... Sorry but, categorize?"

"Organize them by content. You know; gay, straight, lesbian, transsexual or solo. Then within those, make subfolders by more specific things like oral, anal, interracial, toys and so on; whatever the main highlight is. Got it?"

"Doctor Mitchell I... I think, um... Are you sure there's no other project I could do for you? This seems—"

"This is important. Right now the guys have nothing to watch in there."

"But... you really want me to look at... ALL these? Out here in the lobby?"

"No one can see your screen. There's a headphone jack. I have some earbuds you can borrow if you don't have yours with you today. Unless someone is standing up here they won't know what you're watching."

"But, sir... I mean... seriously?" 

"This is your job. I'd like you to take it seriously. Now, obviously your normal duties still have priority so you'll need to keep an eye on the phones. But when it's quiet, like now, you can just plug in and start plowing through these."

"It's just, I wasn't expecting to have to... watch..." her voice trailed off.

"Pornography? Don't be afraid of the word, Tiffany. You're an adult. It won't bite you."

"Yes, sir, I understand. I just haven't... the idea of—" 

"Oh hush. They're actors... and probably well-paid too. You might even learn something." 

"Yes, but I—" 

"Tiffany, I thought you'd find this fun. It's certainly easier than cleaning out our biohazard bins... though if you'd prefer I could train you to do that instead."

She closed her mouth. Her skin suddenly felt itchy. 

Doctor Mitchell continued: "So; as you go through these, add something descriptive to the filename and re-save it to new folders by category. Any files that are corrupted or have quality issues or whatever, just delete. I don't want any junk like that on our server, okay?"

Tiffany's eyes scanned the columns on her screen. The scroll bar to the right of the window was tiny.

"There must be over a thousand," she whispered.

"Well, like I said, feel free to delete the bad ones. No point keeping anything that's not really good."

"Yes but... but how um, how will I know?"

"Use your judgment. If it turns you on, keep it. If it's stupid, boring, or the soundtrack is bad or whatever... just throw it out."

She touched the edge of the screen and scrolled through the list, blinking rapidly. Eventually she looked up and nodded in assent, mostly because she wanted Doctor Mitchell to leave so she could recover from shock. Having him so close-by while she imagined her task was more than mortifying.

"I'll be in my office if you have any questions," he said. 

He straightened to his full height, sliding his hand to the bare part of her back.

"Okay, sir."

He traced his fingers between her shoulder blades until she flinched.

"Good luck," he grinned, retreating into the hallway.

She glanced back once to make sure he was gone, then huddled over the screen and double-clicked the first file.

Ian chuckled to himself in his private office as he resumed his computer work. He expected Tiffany to appear in his doorway at any moment to borrow some earbuds. When she failed to do so after about fifteen minutes, he grabbed his extra pair and crept back toward the lobby.

At first he just peeked around the corner to observe her from behind. She was still alone in the room. Her skinny heels were hooked over the stool's chrome foot rail and her head was motionless. Her forearms clutched the bezel of the podium, apparently transfixed by whatever action was unfolding upon its screen. 

From where he stood he could only discern that flesh-tones were sawing back and forth across the width of the monitor. A soft, oversized shadow of Tiffany's upper body waggled on the ceiling. 

He crept up behind her. Her screen was filled edge-to-edge with a high-resolution shot of an erection plunging in and out of a lipsticked mouth. Each time the big cock withdrew, glistening saliva stretched along its full length, gloriously detailed.

Tiffany's jaw hung slack. Her long eyelashes were unblinking.

"Making progress?" he asked.

She jumped and screamed, simultaneously striking her knee on the podium and slapping both hands on the touchscreen in an attempt to hide the movie. This accidentally un-muted the volume, causing loud moans and slurps to fill the air.

"N-N-NO! Shit!" she squealed. Her petite body hovered above the stool, its every muscle tense. Her lips formed an 'O' of terror. She stabbed at the screen, fruitlessly searching for any sort of 'Off' button.

"Jesus," Ian said, trying not to laugh. "You need to relax." 

He reached over and prodded the Mute and Pause icons in sequence and then dropped his neatly-coiled earbuds onto the glass, saying: "I brought you these."

"For gosh sakes Doctor Mitchell!" she panted. "Don't sneak up like that!"

"I wasn't sneaking," he lied. "You just didn't hear me. Find a good one?"

"I—I don't know, I was just, um... they're so graphic. I mean... I've never seen it... like that." 

"Tiffany honey, you can spare me the fake innocence, okay?"

"Sir, I—"

"I bet you've seen oodles of BJs close-up like that. Or do you close your eyes?"

"N— I just meant I—" 

"It's okay to like it."

"Um, wha—?"

"The movie. Just file it away under straight/oral and move on."

"Oh. Right."

"And don't forget to check the sound quality."

She looked away from him and nervously tucked her hair behind her ears. Then she returned her hands to her lap, fidgeting. 

He smiled, touched her bare shoulder and turned to leave. 

"Have fun!" he said.

Tiffany watched him disappear around the corner and then refocused on her screen. She sat quietly for a minute, trying to recover some sense of normalcy, but an irresistible urge beckoned her to start the video again. She plugged the earbuds' cord into the audio-out jack on the side of her podium and looked around the room. 

By using only one earbud she kept an ear open for the phone and approaching footsteps. In that way she hoped to avoid further embarrassment.

Over the course of the afternoon she saw hours of raunchy striptease, intercourse and ejaculations. Her only interruptions were a handful of patients and a dozen phone calls. Most of the scenes were straight or girl-on-girl, and they seemed to have been collected by someone with a penchant for juxtaposing thin women and large toys. They often involved light bondage too. And, contrary to Ian's assertion, she had never seen such intense fellatio. Many of the actresses appeared to have no gag reflex at all. 

Most surprisingly, she found herself fascinated by cum play, skipping back to re-watch each time a man dramatically soaked his partner with semen. Those videos she re-saved to what she began to think of as the 'good' directory.

This avalanche of hardcore erotica left her feeling dazed and inadequate. Her visual and aural senses were fried. Her thin stool was humid. So extreme was her overstimulation that whenever she blinked, unbidden flashbacks popped into her mind.

At five-thirty that afternoon, Doctor Grisholm was the first to emerge from the offices. He strolled out into the lobby with a relaxed, slightly heavy gait and locked the front door. The day's final patient had been his, a clinically depressed man who spent an hour on his counseling chaise. 

Tiffany watched as he returned from locking the door. He was the shortest of the four doctors and, as it had earlier, his face appeared receptive and calm. Given his job as the clinic's only mental-health professional, she guessed he was a good listener. She noticed his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his wide pants.

She pulled the earbud from her ear and said: "Hi sir." 

"Hello there Tiffany," he answered. "How's your first day been?"

She straightened her spine and crossed her legs, consciously trying to shake her porn-induced torpor. She was stoned on the persistence of her own arousal.

"Uh... it's been interesting." 

"Good. Glad to hear it. I've received compliments on you already."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. Everyone thinks you're a great addition."

"Aww, thanks sir!" she smiled with instinctive politeness. "That's sweet."

"Listen... I was just thinking. I've got to drive across town to pick up some supplies for the office. Any chance you'd like to come along? It might give us a chance to actually get to know each other. I've been so focused on patients all day I feel like we've barely exchanged two words."

"Oh. Um, sure! That'd be nice, but I'd better check with Doctor Mitchell first... to see if it's okay."

"Alright. You do that. I won't be ready for a few minutes anyway. Tell him I can bring you back here afterwards, if he wants, or drop you at your grandmother's."

"Oh wow. Okay. Lemme check."

As Tiffany dismounted her warm stool and walked to the office corridor she quickly imagined that a ride with Doctor Grisholm might be a perfect opportunity to express her concerns about the spanking rule. Depending on how that went, she might also mention the touching and outfit modifications too. He suddenly seemed like the right person to talk to.

She knocked on Ian's door.

"Tiffany!" he called out as soon as she went inside. "How's Rifle's newest celebrity?"

"Ha! Fine I guess. Thank you. Um, Doctor Grisholm is going into town to run some errands and he asked me to go with him. Is that okay?"

"Well... how many scenes did you get through so far?"

"I... I don't know exactly, sir. But it seemed like a lot."

"Any favorites?"

"Uh... um, no... No favorites yet, sir."

"Hm. Too bad. Well, anyway... it's fine to go with Grisholm. You can return to that project later in the week."

"Would you like me to come back here afterward, sir? 'Cause he offered to drop me at home if you don't need me."

"Do you have your cell on you?"

"Yes."

"Uh-huh. Well, keep it on. I'll call you if I need you but otherwise just go home. There will be plenty of occasions to work late but tonight probably isn't one of them."

"Thanks, sir." Her brain wondered what he meant by that.

"Oh, and Tiffany?" 

"Yes sir?"

"Tomorrow try to make your outfit a little more playful, okay? That was our deal, remember?" 

"Oh. Yes. I remember. Sorry about that, sir."

"Not a problem. It was your first day, after all. But tomorrow I expect you to look amazing."

"Well... I don't know about 'amazing,' sir, but I'll try."

"That's all I ask. See you bright and early then."

"Sure. Good night, sir." She smiled, then added: "And thanks again... you know, for the job I mean!"

"My pleasure. G'night."

SCENE 8

Tiffany and Doctor Grisholm entered the local Walmart Supercenter at a quarter past six. The round-faced doctor pulled a shopping list from his pocket and scanned the endless aisles. Tiffany volunteered to tear his list in half and split up, but he declined. 

She followed him around politely at first, but eventually got bored and spoke up: "Doctor Grisholm?"

"Yes?"

"Do you mind if I check-out some clothes? I can meet you by the registers in like, however many minutes you think you'll need?"

"Sure, make it twenty. That's about my limit in these big stores."

She smiled and bolted toward the women's apparel racks. She knew better than to buy anything, given her financial straits, but having a look was too tempting to resist.

Before long Doctor Grisholm had collected everything he needed. He made his way to the long row of check-out lanes, checked his watch when he saw no sign of Tiffany there, and then backtracked to the clothing area. Not finding her there either, he asked an associate to page her via the public address system.

Moments later the nearest floor-manager keyed her microphone to begin the announcement. A piercing squawk of distortion erupted from the store's forty-seven in-ceiling loudspeakers. 

"Tiffany Topper! Tiffany Topper!" the system blared. "Please return to Women's Intimates! Your party is waiting!"

There was a short pause before the ceiling yelled again: "Repeat: Tiffany Topper, your party is waiting in Women's Intimates! Thank you!"

Grisholm turned toward the approaching 'slap-slap-slap' of bare feet running across the linoleum-clad concrete floor. Tiffany appeared at a full sprint; face tomato-red and hair disheveled. 

"Here I am!" she called out, almost colliding with him in her haste. She was wearing white short-shorts and a black tank top. Her purse and shoes dangled from one hand.




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 02



"Oh! Good," he answered, completely unflustered by her panting proximity. "Sorry. I had no idea that would be so loud."

"Jesus, I know! It scared the crap out of me!"

"Now, now; there's no call for language. Why are you wearing different clothes?"

"Oh. I was just trying these on for fun. They're on sale but I was gonna put them back."

"You seem to have lost your dress."

Tiffany looked at the bundle in her hand. "Shi—I mean shoot. I must've left it in the dressing room! Sorry! I'll go get it."

"I'll come with you. No sense in getting separated again."

"Really sorry, sir. I guess I lost track of time."

Grisholm appreciated his view as he followed her barefoot strut to the far end of the store. The elasticized denim shorts she wore were festooned with tags but hugged her nicely nonetheless. Triangular rear pockets drew attention to their brevity by pointing at one-inch cuffs encircling the very tops of her thighs. The cuffs arched upwards as they traversed her butt, exposing just enough skin to reveal the tantalizing initial swell of each cheek. He stared at her blemish-free legs, imagining her skin rising in smooth, twin domes beneath the denim. Above the shorts, her midriff was bare from her sacroiliac dimples to the pinch of her waist. The cropped tank top was snug and rose to a racer-back that flattered the muscle-tone in her shoulders.

He wiped a minor burst of perspiration from his forehead and asked: "You like those?"

"You mean the shorts?" she answered, turning her head and tugging at their waistband. "They're okay. I thought they'd be cuter on, but..."

"But what?"

"Oh nothing. I just shouldn't be shopping. They're a little too young-looking anyway."

Doctor Grisholm cleared his throat. The way her hips rocked back and forth was driving him crazy.

"Well," he ventured, "maybe you just need a different size?"

She didn't miss a beat. "Nah, these fit. I just can't be buying stuff yet. Not until my first paycheck."

They reached the entrance to the dressing rooms and stopped.

"What about the shirt? That looks good on you."

"Does it? Thanks. I only tried it on 'cause it's like five dollars or something. Everything is so much cheaper here."

"Five bucks, huh?" He studied the way the ribbed cotton hugged the padded cups of her bra. 

"Yep," she sighed, adjusting the top a bit, trying to hide her navel.

"Tell you what," he volunteered. "Since it's your first day I'll buy 'em for you. How's that?"

She looked up quickly. "Oh... no doctor Grisholm. Don't be silly. I don't need another tanktop, really."

"I meant the shorts too. Just go put your dress back on. Then we'll see if they have them in a better size."

"But—"

"I insist. Go on."

"But they aren't—"

"Please hurry," he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

Tiffany was soon standing next to him at the rack of white denim shorts. Her sundress was back on with its halter top fully in place but she felt increasingly uncomfortable. He had already found a replacement tank top two sizes smaller than she'd wanted. It now lay in his cart. 

She glanced around nervously, on the lookout for anyone who might recognize what was happening. 

Grisholm was sliding hangars aside in rapid-fire, flicking through the denim short-shorts searching for the size he wanted. 

"Aha!" he proclaimed. "Here we go: extra-EXTRA-small."

Tiffany twisted above her sandals and pressed her palms together in a vague plea as he tossed the absurdly small shorts into his cart.

"That's really not my size, sir, PLEASE!" she begged.

"It's too bad you won't be able to wear them to work," he mused, pushing the cart toward the registers. "I'd love to see them on you."

"But they won't fit me... Please don't buy them, sir! It's totally unnecessary."

"Nonsense. You'll fit into 'em; they're stretchy. Anyway they're a gift. A practically free one too."

"But they're too small!" she protested, imagining how unwearably revealing the shorts would be if they did fit.

"They'll be perfect."

He reached the check-out line and stopped. Tiffany crossed her arms and stared into the cart. 

After a few seconds she whispered over his shoulder: "Can't I just quickly run and switch them for even one size bigger?"

"No, and you know what? I just thought of something."

"What?"

"Wednesdays are our paperwork days. You could wear them both then."

Her face lost color, making her freckles more obvious. "You mean... the office?" she whispered.

"Sure. They're no patients on Wednesdays. I'll check with Mitchell, but I don't see why not. That'd be cool, wouldn't it?"

She was stunned. Again she looked into his cart. A crystal-clear vision of how she would look wearing both garments flashed through her mind. She knew he was right about the stretchy shorts too; they could probably be forced on, if only barely. The result would be a four-inch white band around her hips that revealed everything.

She didn't want to make a scene in the register line, but the idea of flaunting herself in those things at the office twisted her stomach queasily. Doctor Adams would assume she was a whore. Moreover, the rest of the team might be inspired to do utterly unspeakable things. She began to swoon.

"Did you find everything today?" the lady behind the register greeted them without looking up.

"Yes," Grisholm replied with a Cheshire grin. "We sure did."

Tiffany could barely keep her eyes open. She clung to handle of the shopping cart as the stout doctor swiped his credit card.

Outside in the parking lot, he fished out her two new garments and handed them to her before arranging everything else alongside her bicycle in the back of his truck. Tiffany accepted them and climbed into the cab's bench seat without speaking. 

As they began their journey to her grandmother's house, she tried to gather the courage to ask about the office rules. The undersized clothes in her lap were a cautionary signal that her protests might not be well-received but still, as they got closer she sensed her window of opportunity closing. 

"Doctor Grisholm...?" she blurted out of nowhere. "Can I talk with you about something?"

He turned his head and stared silently for a moment before answering: "Sure. What's up?"

"Um..." she hesitated, suddenly feeling unscripted despite all the time she'd spent preparing these thoughts. "You know the uh, the rule... at the office?"

"Which one?"

"The one, um... about... for every minute I'm late? The spankings?"

"Oh that one. What about it?"

"Well so... I've been thinking, and... I... I mean. Don't you think it's a bit, like, inappropriate?"

"No."

Her heart sank. The accumulated indignities of the day began to rise to the surface. She was suddenly close to tears.

"You-you don't?" she stammered. Her lower lip protruded shakily. "Really? But... have you ever heard of anything like that? I mean... it's... it's just so mean!"

"Mean? What are you talking about?"

"Doctor Jacobsen spanked me really hard today!" she cried, facing him suddenly with eyes fully moist. "And then Doctor Adams came in and saw me like, practically naked! And they both... their hands—" 

A sob choked off her words.

Doctor Grisholm reached across the cab and patted her thigh gently.

"There, there," he soothed, steering one-handed. "Don't be upset. They didn't mean to frighten you. And those little swats aren't meant to hurt too much. They're just reminders. You didn't get any welts, did you?"

"Nuh... No!" she managed between gasps.

"See? We all talked about this before you started. The rules are designed with your safety and training foremost in mind. All we want is for you to become the best little office girl you can be."

"But it's— And why does everyone keep calling me that? I'm the Receptionist!"

"Oh, well... that's just your corporate title. Your functional title is Office Girl. Cute, isn't it?"

"Nuhhhoh," she moaned into one palm as wet lines rappelled her cheeks. 

"Suits you to a tee, I think."

"But you can't just... I mean—" 

"Tomorrow we're having a staff meeting to go over the rest of your training program. I think it'll all make more sense once you know the big picture."

"There's... there's more?"

"Don't worry about it tonight. You're in good hands, okay?" 

Tiffany looked down at the new clothes in her lap and blinked out a few more tears. The abject failure of her mini-insurrection left her spent. She wiped her eyes and went quiet.

"'Atta girl. Dry those pretty eyes. By the end of the week I promise you'll love working for us."

One wordless minute later he smacked the truck's thin steering wheel and exclaimed: "Shoot! I completely forgot!"

"What?" Tiffany asked, looking over at him nervously.

"I meant to make one other stop. Do you mind?"

She shook her head.

"Thanks."

Soon they were back across the river on a dusty street that was cut off from the main part of town by an earthen berm. The narrow strip of pavement was poorly patched and lined with garbage dumpsters. Grisholm stopped his truck behind a low brick building. It had no exterior signage, but there was a red light bulb above the door.

"Just wait here," he said as he shut off the motor. "I'll be five or ten minutes."

"Okay," she mumbled, unsure what else to do. Her mind felt soggy. 

When Grisholm disappeared inside the store, she rubbed her nose and checked her appearance in the mirror. Her eyes looked slightly bloodshot but she was relieved to see her makeup still in place. 

He eventually returned to the driver's seat carrying a crinkly black plastic bag. Once his door was closed, he fished around inside.

"Here," he announced, handing her something small. "I saw this by the register. Couldn't believe they had one with your name on it!"

He stuffed the still-full bag behind the bench seat as Tiffany examined her latest gift. It was a leather choker necklace, wrapped in black satin with a small crucifix hanging from a D-ring at the front. Centered above the sturdy leather tab that held the D-ring, 'Tiffany' was spelled out in cursive pink embroidery. 

"I think it's a bracelet or an anklet or something," he elided.

"It's a choker," she corrected him.

"A what?"

"A necklace. I used to have one like this, just without my name or the metal thing. They're sorta Goth."

"That'll fit around your neck? Wow."

"Yeah. But why did you buy this if you don't even know what it is?"

"Oh, just for fun. I thought it might cheer you up. Try it on."

Tiffany carefully undid the buckle and slipped it around her neck. After one quick adjustment it fit snugly and was centered. She looked across the cab at him.

"Oh... my," he began slowly. "That is incredible. You have to wear that."

"Come on, sir. I can't."

"No. I'm serious. You must. It's really, um... nice... on you."

Tiffany flipped down the vanity mirror behind the passenger sun-visor. As soon as she saw herself, her mind flashed back to a scene she had watched earlier. The steel D-ring at the base of her throat looked similar to one she had seen used to leash a girl to a leather-clad mistress who wielded a strap-on with startling brutality.

"No..." she said softly. "I mean, thank you but... I don't think I should wear this."

"I insist. Wear it tomorrow. Otherwise I'll send you home to retrieve it and then you'll be really late." 

He chuckled as if kidding but added: "And I know you don't want to go through that again."

She fixed him with a look and retorted: "I wasn't late today, sir. I was only late bringing Doctor Jacobsen his coffee!"

"All the same, that thing looks great on you. Wear it until further notice. Okay?"

Tiffany harrumphed, slouched into her seat and folded her arms. Her lower lip stuck-out fractionally in protest.

Doctor Grisholm started the engine and reversed out of the alley without another word.

Ten minutes later, just as they were approaching her grandmother's neighborhood, he spoke up again: "So, are you really worried those shorts will be too small?"

"Yes," she said, still sulking.

"Alright then, why don't you try them on? If they don't fit, I'll take them back."

She looked at him skeptically. "Where am I supposed to try them on?"

"Right here. No one can see."

Rolling her eyes she responded: "Except you."

"Well look... I was just offering to help. If you don't want to that's okay, but I'll expect you to wear them on Wednesday."

She lifted the shorts from her lap and turned them over.

"Fine," she sighed. 

Grisholm pulled off the road into a vacant lot. The sun remained only a few degrees above the stony horizon. He slowed the truck to a halt on the edge a dirt field and let it idle.

Tiffany took off her seatbelt, unbuttoned the empty shorts and tore off their biggest tags. Then she carefully looped them over her sandal-clad feet and drew them up around her knees. She gave Grisholm a sideways glance before dragging them up to mid-thigh, bunching her dress she did so.

A thin smile of anticipation creased his face.

The shorts already felt tight despite being scarcely halfway on. The next part would be embarrassing, she knew, because her underwear would show. She scooted her bottom forward and squirmed to pull the stretchy denim higher, grunting out little involuntary noises as she finally got them onto her hips.

"See?" she asked plaintively, sitting again and gathering her dress to show him how wide the shorts' unbuttoned fly was across her lower abdomen. "They don't fit."

Grisholm was enthralled. The gaping fly revealed her panty's lace waistband and tiny sheer front panel. He set the parking brake and killed the motor.

"Try buttoning them."

"But, sir... they're already too tight!"

"Just try."

"Urrg!" she groaned in exasperation. She arched above the bench seat and pulled her dress further out of the way. Then she sucked in her bare tummy and pried the shorts' ultra-low waistband together.

Doctor Grisholm chuckled, delighted to see her athletic body wriggling beside him. Her navel rose and dipped as her abdominals flexed to keep her hips aloft.

One by one she managed to get all five buttons closed.

"Oh my God I could never wear these," she whined breathlessly. She tried to sit normally but the shorts dug fiercely into her crotch. "They're so tight they hurt, sir."

"Lemme see the back," he ventured.

She attempted to tug the shorts out of her crotch but they refused to budge. "Please, sir... It feels like half my butt is showing. I can't wear these!"

"Just show me. Come on, roll over."

Tiffany huffed once more, but rolled away from him and propped herself onto one hip. 

"See?" she asked, turning her head and pulling her dress askew to show him her thong's exposed side-strap. "They're WAY too small."

He didn't respond immediately. 

She inched her bottom backward to emphasize her point. 

Grisholm's calm veneer cracked. Right there in the confines of his otherwise unremarkable Ford he was confronting his core vice. 

His eyes raked her bare legs, absorbing their uninterrupted display of smooth skin that now reached all the way up to and beyond the pale dents of her gluteal crease. Her posture made the shorts appear to have no inseam whatsoever. Stretchy white denim emerged from the hollow of her crotch in a narrow wedge. Too snug by far, each folded cuff dented her skin as it curved across her butt, evidencing her supple elasticity rather than concealing it. The tiny triangular pockets pointed at the exposed half of their respective cheeks, encouraging his eyes to reverse course and follow the descent of the cuffs back to where they converged on the shorts' thin central seam and disappeared into her crotch. 

"Fuuu..." he drooled. 

Myriad mental obsessions distilled themselves to one pure object: Tiffany's ass. 

"See?" she repeated, snapping her exposed panty-strap against her skin.

Without thinking, he leaned over and grabbed her bottom.

"Hey!" she yelped.

"Shh for a second," he mumbled, barely in control. "I'm just seeing how tight they are."

He lifted her ass, squeezing its soft flesh. Then he worked his thumbs up under the rear of her shorts, stretching the fabric still tighter against her crotch. 

"What are you doing?!" she pleaded. "Ow!" 

He pried upward, tilting her pelvis until she was mooning him. Her upper body flopped across the cab. She scratched the plastic door panel searching for traction and let out a stream of explicative squeals as he squeezed his grip, cranking the shorts higher and ogling her beautifully petite camel-toe. 

In his mind she became essentially naked. He leaned closer and planted a wet kiss on her inner cheek, right beside her anus.

"Let me go!" she responded.

"So... damn... nice!" he whispered, glassy-eyed with lust. 

His right hand moved, releasing the rear of her shorts and quickly hooking under her hips. He pulled them closer and higher, almost into his lap. His left hand stretched her butt cheeks this way and that. 

Salvaging just enough mental bandwidth to lie, he said: "They don't look TOO tight, Tiffany."

"Yes they are!" she squealed.

He ran two fingers down the dented line of her camel-toe until he found her clit. It was a bump, tortuously pinned to one side by the pressure of the shorts' central seam. 

"You mean right here?" he asked, kneading his fingertips. 

She gasped.

"Oh, you like that?"

"No! Please don't!"

He stroked her clit again.

"Fuck!" she cried. "You're hurting me!"

"My goodness you're sensitive, honey. I can feel how swollen you are right through your jeans."

"Please!"

He rubbed side-to-side. She kicked her long bare legs and tried to dislodge his forearm from under her hips, but it was useless. 

"These are really gorgeous on you, you know that?" he announced calmly, still stroking her clit with two fingers while the pad of his thumb wiggled against the taut layers barely covering her vagina.

Tiffany's head clunked against the armrest and her eyes clenched tight. Her body was responding in ways she did not like. A glow-stick of pleasure connected her clit to her brain and blocked out all rational thought. She knew she shouldn't be feeing this way, but it was overwhelmingly intense.

His fingers kept moving, working her wedgie side-to-side.

"Please!" she whispered, letting go of the armrest and collapsing. Her face and shoulders landed on the vinyl seat. Using both hands she tried to dislodge his stocky forearm but it remained immovable.

For a while he kept rubbing her, saying nothing but clearly relishing her position and burgeoning arousal. 

Eventually he spoke: "I tell you what; if you promise to finish what I'm doing when you get home, I'll stop."

"Okay," she whispered, not processing what he meant.

"And wear these Wednesday."

"Yes. I promise. Please just stop, you're really—AH...! Really... "

He let go.

She scrambled from of his lap. Still dizzy, she sat and brushed her dress down to conceal the tiny shorts. Her heart thumped in her chest like a crazed rabbit.

It took Grisholm a minute to recover his senses too. His higher brain functions had ceased while staring at her ass. 

"No... sorry actually," he stumbled out of the fog at last. "I didn't mean to scare you there Tiffany, I um, it's just... your skin looked so perfect. I mean, it IS perfect. I couldn't think straight."

She glanced at him once, then looked down at her hands. They toyed with the shorts' top button through her thin dress.

A few moments of anxious silence passed.

"I can't breathe," she whispered finally. 

She reached under her dress to unfasten the shorts and let out a gasp of relief as they opened. Quickly she peeled them down to her ankles and started fishing her sandals out of them one at a time. 

Grisholm watched, still amazed. 




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 02



With the shorts now off, she sat up and fixed her dress. Then she faced him with a desperate look. 

"Really, sir: please don't make me wear those. I mean, you saw; don't they show, like, everything?! You really want me walking around the office like that?"

He smiled as he re-started the engine and drove back onto the road, ignoring her plea.

"Tell me how often you masturbate," he said.

She recoiled from this fresh shock. "What?"

"How often? I'm curious."

"I... um, I don't know."

"Sure you do, Tiff'. Come on. Every day? Twice a week? What?"

"Sir, I... after everything that's happened today I'd really rather not talk about it."

"Well, just remember to finish tonight, okay?"

She toyed with the choker around her neck, mortified to her core.

He glanced over as they crested a small rise and entered a residential neighborhood, continuing: "You know you're more sensitive on your right, don't you?"

Her head snapped toward him with a look of bewilderment.

"I could tell from your reactions just now. When I pushed your clitoris to the left, exposing its right side and rubbing in there... that's definitely your favorite."

Tiffany's face became so red she worried it might pop. Her eyes blinked and dilated. She hugged herself defensively.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," he continued. "Most women are sided. It just means you have more nerve-endings there."

"I... I... don't—" 

"You didn't know?"

She shut her mouth.

"Tiffany, you should be more mindful when you masturbate. Pay attention to what feels good. You will gain a better understanding of yourself and become a better lover at the same time."

She slouched deeper into her seat, covering the left side of her face with one hand. How, she wondered, could this man already know more about her clitoris than she did? It was horrible.

"Which of these is your grandmother's street again?" he segued nonchalantly.

She had to force herself to stop thinking about the sensations between her legs and instead look out the window to regain her bearings. She felt clammy and unable to breathe.

Ten seconds later she pointed: "That one." 

"Alright. Well, say hi to her from all of us down at the clinic." 

He pulled into the driveway and stopped his truck. Then he added: "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

She tucked her dress under her butt and climbed out of the cab carrying her new tank top and shorts in one hand. The choker was still around her neck. She shut the door without saying goodbye.

Doctor Grisholm smiled and waved, hoping her grandmother was watching from inside.

SCENE 9 

"You're wearing a Cross!" her grandmother exclaimed as soon as she walked through the front door. "Oh, I just knew it was a good idea to have you to come stay with me."

Tiffany's startled smile belied her discomfort. She covered the choker with the web of her hand and stammered: "It... it was just a gift."

"Of course it was, dear. A gift of Faith. That comes from on-high!"

After dinner Tiffany cleaned the kitchen and added a few items to the list for their next grocery delivery. She still wore the choker. Her grandmother had become positively exultant about it, devoting half her pre-dinner Grace to thanking the Lord for guiding her granddaughter back onto the one true path. The fact that it had come from one of Tiffany's new bosses only further inflated her grandmother's regard for her job at the clinic. 

After tidying the house, Tiffany washed her face, bid her grandma goodnight and shut herself into the guest bedroom.

She closed the blinds and stripped naked.

After showering, she sat on the edge of her bed in a towel and looked at her phone. She wanted to call Annabelle, but wasn't sure what to say. She sighed, realizing it might be too late anyway given the time difference, and tossed the phone aside.

She combed her hands through her damp, neck-length hair.

Part of her still wanted to return to the clinic the next day despite her anxiety about what the doctors might try. She wasn't expected to wear her new outfit until Wednesday, after all, so that meant she could at least control her appearance.

She needed the money... and seeing Doctor Adams again would be a bonus.

"One day at a time," she reassured herself.

She stood and retrieved the shorts and tank top from her bureau, curious to confirm how awful they were. She snipped-off their remaining tags with a pair of scissors and then discarded her towel.

This time she wore no underwear, pulling-on the two stretchy garments directly over her bare skin. Once she had the tiny shorts buttoned, she stood before a long mirror and studied her reflection.

"Oh... my God," she whispered, turning this way and that. "I look like a total bimbo."

The extra-small top was cropped four inches above her navel, revealing everything up to her second rib. The shorts were so tiny and low-waisted that they barely concealed her pubic hair. Their tight cuffs ended abruptly at her crotch. When she turned and looked over her shoulder, she gawped at the way they exposed her ass.

"Jesus Christ," she cursed.

She tugged and pulled the shorts, trying to find a comfortable way to wear them, but the more she wiggled the more deeply they embedded themselves. Their lowest two buttons bracketed her clitoris, translating her movements into a crude form of masturbation.

Lifting her gaze to her neck, she ran a finger around her new choker and thought about Doctor Adams. What would he think, she wondered, if she actually wore this ensemble to work on Wednesday? Would he like it? Would he want to make-out with her again?

A tingle fired through her at this prospect. Her nipples began to punctuate the black top. She ran her hands over the swells of her chest, toying with their bra-less pliancy.

She felt sexy. 

Still watching in the mirror, she squeezed her breasts together, creasing the tank top between them. Then she released, delighting in the buoyant way they sprang apart. 

Next she slid her hands down her bare stomach and yanked the shorts open, exposing her tiny smudge of brunette trim. The shorts stayed up on their own, of course. She dug one hand into them and cupped her shaved mound. Inside she was a slippery, hot mess. 

"God you're naughty!" she scolded her reflection. 

Her knees knocked together as a jangle of nerves echoed in approval.

She toyed with herself for another minute, watching her body's eroticism bloom in the mirror. Soon the tank top was hooked above the shelf of her tits and her puffy nipples jutted out like large pencil-erasers. She wetted them with her fingers and pulled. 

A high-pitched groan escaped her, loud enough that she glanced at the door to be sure it was shut.

Then her fingers went back to her crotch, teasing her slippery clit. Goosebumps rose on her limbs. She spread her labia and tugged the shorts higher, trying to hump their main seam.

"Hoo..." she breathed. "Oh my God."

She was close, she knew, but wanted to stop. Doctor Grisholm's insistence that she 'finish' deserved to be spited and, furthermore, she needed to exercise some self-control for once.

She turned away from the mirror and peeled off both undersized garments, replacing them with a loose, completely unpretentious cotton sleep-shirt. Then she turned off the lights and crawled into bed.

She intended to fall asleep without masturbating but it wasn't easy. Every time she shut her eyelids scenes from her day replayed; not only her own experiences but all those porn scenes too. Beyond those lay her fertile anticipations about the days to come.

"Ugh!" she moaned into her pillow an hour later, still awake. 

Her libido remained keen. She lay on her stomach to combat the urges to touch herself. 

Eventually she managed to doze but it was not a restful night. Dreams of involving the four doctors wrinkled her brow and animated her jaw. Never once did her nipples soften. Never once did her vulva feel un-aroused.

At five o'clock in the morning a particularly vivid ideation disturbed her sleep. Her night shirt was up around her ribs and a pillow was between her thighs. Her hands were mechanically pulling the pillowcase upward, snugging its thin edge against her naked crotch. Her neck was twisted to one side, which tightened the choker. Her carotids bulged against it.

In her mind, rather than a pillowcase it was Doctor Adams touching her clit and rather than a necklace it was his kisses cutting her breath short.

"Nih! Nn!" she moaned, visualizing herself being spooned by him while his hands worked their way into her little shorts. She felt his mouth everywhere all at once, kissing her ears, her neck, her chest, the middle of her back, her inner thighs, her chest, and of course that other place too; where she'd already felt his attentions for real. She imagined grabbing his hair and cumming. It was bliss. Then everything shifted, as dreams do, and she was eye-level with his pants. She was trying to pull down his zipper. His erection was obvious but she couldn't get to it. Her fingers felt too uncoordinated. Then the dream's color began to fade and her arms were passing through him like a ghost. He became nearly transparent. Suddenly he was gone and she could no longer breathe.

Outside, the grey light of dawn had only just begun.

"K-Uhh!" she spat loudly, lurching upright. She coughed and gasped, running her fingers under the choker to loosen it. Her skin was slick with sweat. 

She looked around, blinking, and pulled the pillow from between her legs. Then she unbuckled the choker and set it on the nightstand before collapsing back into the tangled covers.

"Fuck," she whispered half a minute later, rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling. She brushed back her hair with both hands. "What have I become?"

Before she had a chance to fall asleep again, the room's old clock-radio sounded.

She slapped the snooze bar and dragged the sheets up to her chin.

Her naked clit throbbed in frustration. She shut her eyes in vain. The words of Doctor Grisholm flickered in her mind, about being sided. 

It was no use. She slid her hands down to her crotch and, using only one finger, gingerly approached her clitoris from the right.

It stood out like a half-chewed gumball, stiff and wet. She was almost afraid to move it. She kept her eyes closed, clenched her teeth and carefully stretched it leftward, feeling pleasure radiate her groin. She was immediately close. Anticipation narrowed her focus to a pin-hole. She took a shallow breath and then slowly, with her right index finger, touched the exposed side, down near its base. 

She pressed inward and wiggled.

Stars exploded behind her eyelids.

"FAH!" she cried, curling reflexively into a fetal ball with both hands clamped tight to her vulva as she pole-vaulted over the threshold of no-return. Her pelvis jerked. Her mind blanked. Her vagina squirmed in ecstasy.

"Oh my GOD!"

Unable to reverse course, she rubbed and rubbed. A bright climax unleashed itself, blasting happiness to her extremities.

Rolling her face deep into the pillow she wailed. Fluid gushed from her, soaking her bottom. Her hands kept working, beyond any conscious control, forcing her orgasm higher.

Soon all the air was gone from her lungs. Still her arousal hung there, sky-high and fully-lit. 

Within her mind a panicky voice cried 'Stop!' but her body was far too corrupted. It kept going, rubbing and tugging its new endorphin-source like a crazed addict. 

An entire breathless minute elapsed. It was the longest orgasm she'd ever had.

When she finally regained lucidity she inhaled a chest-full of air and jerked her hands out of her crotch. She sprawled across the bed, panting, while her body basked in an ocean of unexpected relief. 

Hair shrouded her face and clung to her lips. She brushed it aside and blinked, needing all her concentration simply to breathe.

Eventually, gradually, her heartbeat decelerated.

"Fuck," she whispered. "I am so screwed."

The clock-radio started again. It was time to begin Day Two.

*



Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 03



Author's Note: On Tiffany's second day as the clinic's new receptionist she begins to appreciate the number of fantasies being reified by her timidity.

Because fiction. 

Because you're predisposed to read ribald prose and I'm inclined to write it. We each must own our itches.

Enjoy!

*

SCENE TEN

Doctor Ian Mitchell arrived at his clinic before sunrise. 

He unloaded a canvas duffel bag and a heavy FedEx parcel from the back of his sport utility vehicle and carried them into his office. Before unpacking either he unlocked the laboratory adjacent to Exam Room 1 and flicked-on the lights. 

Inside the small lab, he opened an upright freezer containing semen samples donated to his reproductive-health practice over the prior four years. Propping the cold door open, he carefully identified the drawer he sought and pulled it halfway out.

Orderly rows of glass vials, numbering well into the hundreds and each labeled with a frost-proof sticker, hung inside. On the right were samples from the four doctors, including his own. 

After a moment's reflection he changed his mind and pushed that drawer back. Instead he pulled open another drawer, filled with sub-optimal semen from anonymous donors. From this one he removed forty-eight vials and placed them on a wooden cradle on the nearby countertop. 

He then shut the freezer, extinguished the lights and returned to his office, leaving the semen to slowly thaw in the dark.

SCENE ELEVEN

Across town, Tiffany swung her legs off the side of her bed and sat up. 

All night her fantasies about Doctor Adams and her recollections of being spanked had competed with mental reenactments of the porn scenes she'd watched. It was as if two halves of her subconscious had been trying to out-shock each other. She knew her resulting exhaustion, now temporarily masked by post-climactic wakefulness, would be a handicap at the clinic all day. 

She stood and stretched, allowing her cotton sleep-shirt to drape to mid-thigh. 

She could not believe she'd gotten so turned on by the events of her first workday, nor forgive herself for wanting to go back. The rational side of her brain had originally thought to call the police, or at least quit, but somewhere along the way another voice had prevailed upon her to stay. There was something compelling about being the object of so much male attention. It almost didn't matter that it was wrong. In fact the naughtiness of going back, of willingly risking further indignities, only made the whole thing more enticing rather than less.

And then there was Doctor Adams. The thought of seeing him again was positively corrupting.

She pulled on some stretchy half-leggings and shuffled to the kitchen.

Her lengthy pre-dawn orgasm had slackened, for a time, the parade of filthy thoughts traversing her mind; long enough for her to eat a quick breakfast with her Grandma, wash the dishes and then return to her guest room.

Once alone again she assured herself that she'd learned lessons her first day. She began to look for an outfit that would appease Doctor Mitchell.

Her new black choker necklace was the first thing she donned. Its sturdy metal D-ring shadowed the hollow at the base of her throat. She inserted a finger through it and played with its tiny crucifix, then traced the pink embroidery that spelled-out her name. She realized the cursive script looked like a logo; as if 'Tiffany' was her brand. 

"Everyone will know my name," she whispered to her reflection in the mirror. That was frightening now that she thought about it.

Putting that concern aside she turned to her closet and flicked through the hangars, searching for inspiration.

The first outfit she tried on was a daring little black dress that she'd nearly left home in Boston. It was short and blatantly sexy. She decided there was no way it would ever pass for office-attire in front of the patients, so she put it back.

Next she considered a grey pencil skirt that was high-waisted and tight. Its lower hem reached her knees. It looked professional and the material, cut and color were conservative as well, but, holding it aloft, she decided it wasn't flirty enough for Doctor Mitchell. 

After re-hanging the pencil skirt she opened her bureau's top drawer and selected a midnight blue g-string. It had an open triangle at the back that framed her tailbone. She stepped into it and raised it to her hips, neatly bisecting the twin globes of her young ass. 

Still otherwise naked, she regarded herself in the long mirror and felt a sudden urge to moisturize. She pumped a large dollop of lotion into each hand and stroked them into her skin, up and down her legs and all over her torso. 

Her nipples were still plump.

'God,' she thought. 'How am I ever going to concentrate today?'

Once all the moisturizer was absorbed, she walked back to her closet.

Eventually she settled on a suede wrap-around miniskirt as the centerpiece of her outfit. It was one of her summer wardrobe staples back in Boston because it coordinated easily and could be dressed up or down depending on what top and accessories she paired it with. Rather than stepping into it like a normal skirt, she merely unfastened its two closures, opened it into a flat panel and then wrapped it clockwise around her hips until it overlapped in front. The corner of underlying layer had a Velcro tab that attached anywhere along a facing strip on the silk lining of the outside layer, so that the skirt's circumference could be adjusted to a wide range of sizes. The remaining outer material tied via a pair of leather cords to the skirt's right hip. This created a miniskirt two layers thick in front and one layer thick in back, and since the front layers were only secured at their upper corners they tended to shift around a lot, allowing her freedom of movement but revealing nothing more than the underlying suede. All that movement was good at attracting eyeballs, though. It was flirtatious without being daring.

She carefully secured the skirt low enough on her hips that it concealed her upper thighs, but high enough that it did not appear too casual. Then she tied the side strings in a snug bow. 

Still naked from the waist up, she returned to the mirror and sucked-in her narrow abdomen to evaluate her profile. 

She clucked her tongue at the delicate crow's-feet where her armpits transitioned into the puffy verge of each boob. She traced her fingertips up from her stomach, invading her less-tanned triangles that swelled proudly forward. Her boobs' youthful loft made her smile; it showed no sign of slackening and felt remarkably elastic. Foremost stood her two ready nipples; starkly pink and worryingly excited.

Her fingers squeezed, enfolding themselves in softness. 

"God... maybe I should skip wearing a bra today," she thought aloud, surprising her better angels. "I bet the Doctor Adams would love that."

As a test of sorts, she slipped on an undyed silk shell that was not long enough to tuck into the waist of her skirt. Its dainty spaghetti straps went far down her back and left her upper chest nude. The silk was so weightless that her nipples created draping highlights that hung well clear of her stomach. 

Technically it covered her breasts, but in no way did it function like a bra. The slightest movements made the silk flutter and swing. 

It felt ethereal against her.

Still in experimentation mode, she threaded her arms into a little V-neck cardigan sweater with buttons all down the front. Its cream color coordinated well with the underlying silk and she figured she could adjust the number of buttons depending on whether or not she was in front of patients.

"Hmm," she considered with a mischievous twinkle, "Maybe."

Needing to balance this slightly daring ensemble with something conservative, she stepped into a pair of tan closed-toe pumps that had a very modest heel. They were the only truly office-like shoes she owned. 

She brushed her neck-length hair back from her face and secured it with a grey fabric headband. Last but not least, she put in some pendant earrings and did her makeup.

"There," she said, trying to rationalize her choices before the mirror. "That should give me enough options to keep everyone happy while still looking presentable."

She adjusted the thin sweater and spun leftward toward the window's morning light. The way her boobs moved freely was more obvious than she liked and the points of her nipples were just discernable through the knit.

"Shoot," she said aloud, wondering whether to ditch the shell, put on a bra and find some other middle layer instead. But all that would take time and degrade the adjustability of her outfit.

Turning one way and another, she dithered over the risk of going to work as she was.

Then her cell phone rang. With a frown she fetched it and studied the screen. The incoming number was unfamiliar. 

"Hello?" she answered. 

"Tiffany. It's Doctor Grisholm."

"Uh... Hi?"

"Good morning. I just discovered your bike still in the back of my truck. I guess we both forgot it last night."

"Oh... You're right! Sorry about that, sir."

"It's okay. I'm here to pick you up."

"You're... where?"

"Outside your Grandma's. Come on out and I'll give you a ride."

"Oh f—I mean shoot! No, I mean... thank you. It's just, um... I need to—"

"I'm getting into work a touch early today, and so should you. Show some initiative your first week."

"Uh... right, sir, of course you're right," she stalled for a second, wondering whether she dared keep him waiting while she found a bra and a different top. After a few seconds she caved, saying: "Okay. I'll be right there." 

He disconnected. Then he honked for good measure. 

The truck's horn shattered the early quiet. Tiffany sprinted through her grandmother's house and charged down the front steps, forgetting all about the wild, bouncy show this treated him to.

"Welcome aboard," he smiled as she climbed in beside him. "Nice sweater."

"Um... thanks, sir," she demurred.

The truck reversed roughly into the street, thudding across a storm gutter. She clutched her front buttons tightly, trying to stifle the oscillations of her chest. Of course they continued anyway, triggered by the Ford's abrupt handling.

Grisholm grinned at her, steering toward every pothole he could find.

SCENE TWELVE

Ian had purchased a bar-blender, some oblong freezer trays and box of popsicle sticks from an online kitchen-supply retailer and had them all shipped to his house over the weekend. Additionally, from Starbucks he'd purchased two bottles of flavoring syrup (one vanilla and one salted caramel), and from Wal-Mart a tub of protein powder and several quarts of almond milk.

All these ingredients were laid out on the lab's small countertop. For the second time that morning he was eyeballing careful proportions into the blender.

The pair of popsicle-making trays stood open: one already full and the other waiting. Their pre-formed cavities would shape popsicles that were round in cross-section and six inches tall.

As Grisholm and Tiffany bounced along the road to the clinic, Ian up-ended the remaining twenty-four vials of anonymous semen into the second blender-load.

Once capped, the machine whirred and spun, churning the ingredients into a watery, whitish cocktail. He let the foam settle for a few seconds, then poured the mixture into the empty tray's cavities, careful to leave a bit of room at the top as directed by the instructions. 

Once the blender was empty he opened the box of sticks and inserted one halfway into each of the sixteen popsicles, then snapped the trays shut and placed them in the freezer to harden. 

He smiled; thrilled by the knowledge that each pop would contain three ejaculation's worth of semen. Of this he was certain; it was simple arithmetic. What remained unknown was whether Tiffany's tongue could discern it.

Once the freezer closed he burst-out laughing. For several minutes he stooped, hands to knees, nearly overcome by the hilarity of his obscene joke. 

SCENE THIRTEEN

Tiffany and Grisholm arrived at the clinic shortly after seven in the morning. He helped unload her bike in the parking lot and then disappeared into his office.

The first thing Tiffany did was wake the coffee maker. This was partly for her own benefit as she was tired, but also because she wanted to get-off on the best foot with Doctor Jacobsen. Greeting him at the door with a freshly-brewed mug to go with his morning paper seemed like a great idea.

'Men are simple,' she reassured herself while arranging her supplies for the day across the top of the lobby's credenza. 'You just have to know what they like; in his case that's milk and no sugar.' 

"Ah, Tiffany!" Ian called out as he strode into the room from the office hallway. "Nice to see you're a bit early. Were you hoping to watch some more scenes today?"

"Hi!" she laughed, "No, Doctor Mitchell, I um... Good morning. I just wanted to get everything ready for the day... you know."

"Sure! Well, I'll take a cup of joe while you're at it. I just need to get something from my car. I'll be back."

"How do you take it, sir?"

"Two sugars and lots of cream," he chuckled.

"Okay."

Before the coffee was fully perked, Ian sauntered back through the lobby carrying a rectangular UPS box.

"Your coffee isn't quite ready yet, Doctor Mitchell. Should I bring it to your office?"

"That'd be fine. Then we can discuss your outfit."

"Oh?" she asked, genuinely surprised. Her heart sank as he left the room without further comment. 

The other two doctors hadn't arrived by the time the coffee was done brewing, so she poured out two cups: one for herself and one for Doctor Jacobsen. She took a few sips of her own and retrieved the morning paper from the mail drop. 

Imagining that Jacobsen might arrive while she was away from her desk, she carefully arranged his folded newspaper and milk-infused coffee beside one another on the corner of her dais where she felt sure he would see them. She wrote out his name on a sticky-note and placed it on the newspaper. As a final touch, she drew a smiley-face and signed the note with a little heart above the 'i' in her name.

An apprehension crossed her mind that this might be a little too informal for Jacobsen's taste, but she brushed that aside and got busy preparing Mitchell's coffee next.

All was quiet in the lobby when she left. 

Ian's office door was wide open, which was helpful because she was carrying a hot mug in each hand.

He rose to greet her with a thin smile and accepted his mug.

"You..." she began innocently, "You wanted to talk to me about my outfit, sir?"

"Yes, yes," he answered. "Let's have a look." He made a twirling gesture with his free hand, adding: "Do you mind?"

"Of course not," she said, setting her coffee on his desk and turning once with her arms apart. "Do you like it?"

"Well the necklace is cute... but as for the rest, I think... well, the old ladies will like it. That sweater is very, uh... Nineteen-Fifties, don't you think?"

"Um... no sir, it's not THAT old-fashioned. Actually I... I intended the sweater to make the whole thing a bit more conservative than it really is; you know, so I can look professional in front of the patients."

"Uh-huh," he grunted. "And until then?"

She stumbled, conceptually, vis-à-vis her next move. She had envisaged undoing two or maybe three buttons for the doctors if they insisted, but Mitchell's face looked really severe; as if he had expected her to wear something dramatically more exciting. She realized that probably wouldn't suffice to invert his opinion.

"I, um..." she began, fiddling the sweater with beguiling hesitancy. "I was thinking..."

She undid one button and then two more, allowing the underlying silk to reveal itself. Her blue eyes latched onto his, watching for any sign of disapproval. She felt a growing uncertainty about this plan, but couldn't think what else to do.

When the middle button was all that remained she paused and exhaled slowly, trying to ease the pressure. Ian's expression was expectant and unimpressed.

She twisted the last button tentatively, mumbling: "Maybe just for you... during for the morning-hours I mean, sir... I could wear..."

It opened. 

"...just this."

She shrugged off the small sweater and let it fall to her wrists behind her. Her scapulae tightened, pushing her chest out toward him. 

Ian's jaw went slack. The delicate silk and faint spaghetti straps were like candy to his eyes. For all intents his newest employee had just stripped herself, inviting him to behold every feature of her natural tits. The fact that she wore no bra was obvious. The thin shell clung to her outer crescents and bridged the distance between her nipples. Below that shiny line, the silk hung away in a brief, loose curtain.

Nudity would have provoked him less.

"Oh Tiffany..." he whispered in a near trance. "That really is better."

Her face widened with a smile and her soft chest wobbled as she fought to free her wrists from the sweater's cuffs. Finally she got loose and dropped the knit garment over a nearby chair. Then she clasped her hands behind her and gently twisted side-to-side, basking in the praise of his gaze.

"Do you like it?" she asked unnecessarily. 

Ian was so happy that he nearly answered honestly, which would have let her off the hook too easily. He stopped himself just in time and re-asserted a skeptical visage.

"Yes, um... it's a vast improvement. But your shoes and skirt are still a bit plain, don't you think?"

"Plain?"

"Yes. The whole outfit is colorless, in fact. I don't suppose you brought anything else?"

"No sir."

"Hm. Well, obviously there's nothing we can do about the shoes then, but perhaps the skirt? Is there any way you can make it less boring?"

"Um... well sir, I hadn't thought... I was hoping you would like it. It's pretty short."

Ian approached her and gently turned her to one side by the elbow. His eyes raked her profile, lasciviously ogling its beautiful proportions.

"Does this hold it together?" he asked, noticing the skirt's side-tie.

"Yeah, um... partly. It also attaches inside."

"Well... can you make it tighter? So it sits up at your waist properly?"

"Uh," she deflected, "maybe a little."

"Show me." 

He pinched the loose ends of the bow and pulled.

"OH! Hang on sir!" she gasped, catching the suede as it fell open.

Ian backed-off and folded his arms to watch. She slid one hand under the skirt's waist to break the Velcro closure, then raised it an inch and began to reattach it.

"Higher," he instructed. "Right up around your waist."

"But, um..." she stammered, still clutching the skirt's two flaps.

"Let's just see how it looks."

"Too short, sir," she said softly, glancing at him. "It'll be too short if I do that."

He continued staring at her hips, waiting.

Eventually she looked down and began adjusting the Velcro to fit just under her narrowest point, pulling the interior lining snug against her skin.

"Even higher," he insisted.

She glanced up for less than a second. Ian noticed a shiver run through her but she studiously peeled apart the Velcro one more time and re-snugged at the smallest aspect of her waist, just below her navel. She smoothed it flat and re-tied the leather strings at her hip.

"There," Ian smiled. "Much better."

"Really?" she pleaded, running her fingers along the skirt's lower edge to discern its brevity. "But... I'm way too exposed."

"No, no. It's perfect on you; shows off your legs without being inappropriate."

Tiffany bit her lip and felt the back of the skirt. It now ended at the very top of her legs, barely an inch below her ass.

"Oh, sir..." she whimpered, looking at him feebly. Her eyebrows pulled high in the middle and down on the sides, silently begging for a reprieve from this.




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 03



"You look nervous, Tiffany," he said. "Do I make you nervous... or are you just shy today?"

"Well it's just so..."

"So what?" he pressed her.

"Revealing, sir."

"I don't think so. You have panties on, haven't you?"

"Of course!"

"So; you're all covered-up then. No need to worry. And you look cute now rather than like some Holly Homemaker who crochets her own clothes."

"No, sir, I—"

Ian cut her off with a dismissive wave and retreated behind his desk. From a lower drawer he extracted a bottle of blended whisky and opened it.

"Here," he said as he tilted the bottle above her half-empty coffee, "To calm your nerves. I'd join you, but of course that would be unethical what with patients to attend to later. But you should go ahead. You seem very tense."

Tiffany's eyes widened as the bottle glugged three, four and then five times into her mug, brimming it full.

"Oh, um sir, I... I don't think—"

"How old are you again?"

"Twenty-two, but—"

"Fine then; no excuses. A little nip will take the edge off."

He re-plugged the bottle with a squeak and lifted Tiffany's mug toward her. She accepted it with a reluctant expression.

"Bottoms-up!" he smiled, hoisting his own unadulterated coffee.

Out of habit Tiffany briefly smiled and then managed a small sip.

"Ooh! Wow that's strong, sir."

Ian shut the bottom drawer of his desk with the bottle inside, walked passed her and shut the door of his office, too.

Her eyes followed his movements vigilantly. When he flopped into one of the little leather armchairs in the opposite corner of the room, she took another sip.

Ian patted his knee and said, "Come here so we can talk about your day."

Butterflies materialized in her stomach. She stalled, evaluating him over the rim of her mug. The idea of sitting on his knee like a schoolgirl in this now-tiny skirt made her queasy. She was grateful for the alcohol. She took another, much deeper swig and exhaled as the whisky heated her throat.

Ian patted his knee again, beckoning her.

She ambled toward him, clutching her warm drink in both hands and trying to maintain some semblance of courage. When she reached the foot of his chair, she removed one hand to her hip and asked:

"Yes sir?"

"Have a seat," he stated calmly.

Tiffany saw his eyes wandering the length of her figure. She crossed her ankles and ran a protective hand across the band of her midriff exposed by the forward drape of her little top.

"Sir, I..." she began solemnly. "My skirt is too short now. I'm not sure I can sit... there... without—"

"We're going to have a friendly chat; manager to employee. Now quit stalling."

When he patted his knee again she had to stifle a grin. She had been prepared for a little flirting and groping today, but the path Mitchell seemed to be leading her down felt truly dangerous. She had no idea how far it led. 

She wished she'd worn different underwear too; something with more than a ribbon of back coverage.

After another anxious pull from her mug she swallowed. Her entire chest warmed. She turned halfway around and slowly lowered her bottom onto Ian's left thigh. 

Immediately she felt a hand on her bare hip, up under the side of her skirt. 

She twisted toward his face and settled, holding his shoulder for balance. She tried to remain calm but was disconcerted by the feel of trousers against her bottom and the intimacy of his hand.

Ian pulled her deeper into his lap, forcing her legs to curl between his. Her right boob became very near to his chin.

"Now, Tiffany," he began in a fatherly tone, "While you finish your coffee let's discuss today's schedule."

She nodded over-seriously, looking down into his eyes while keeping her lungs full and her breathing shallow so her posture would not slouch. She folded her legs carefully; knees and ankles together. Her right hand now lay across the back of the chair, behind his head. Her left hand held her mug above the negligible lap of her skirt. 

Whiskey was evaporating through her sinuses.

Ian began describing the upcoming staff meeting where she would be the principal item on the agenda. As he spoke he held her close by the hip and silently relished the feel of her legs between his. Soon his right hand began to wander the periphery of her clothing, making her flinch or squirm whenever it transited a ticklish spot. 

Her pendant earrings swung each time she moved. She watched his lips and began to feel buzzed from the alcohol. Her focus narrowed and the rest of the room faded until all she knew was that her boss' mouth was so close to her right nipple that she could feel his breath through the weightless silk. 

She did her best to listen but it was difficult. Other, conflicting urges began to blossom. Her anxious grin became irrepressible.

Ian was talking about the frequency of phone messages from sperm-donors requesting appointments and how he wanted to see an increase in new, younger ones too. Donor-recruitment would be an important part of her job, he said, and was the main reason she was to keep herself on display in the lobby during business hours.

She was barely listening.

As he spoke his gaze followed his right hand's roving fingertips, drinking-in the subtleties of her skin and shape. He played games with her sensitivities, drawing lines up and down her bare thighs, gently brushing the silk that hung loose below her breasts, tickling her goose bumps, fondling the D-ring of her choker, etcetera. 

Before long he knocked down one of her top's spaghetti straps. They both waited to see how long she would delay before fixing it.

Tiffany felt her grip on this situation loosening. His leg was gently bouncing under her bottom. She worried about the thinness of her panties.

Through a variety of non-verbal cues, he convinced her to let both spaghetti straps slip down. The silk shell crept lower. He encouraged it with little tugs and brushes until it hung on the verge of falling, barely concealing her areolas and arrested only by the prominence of her nipples. Then he stopped fiddling and stared. 

"Lovely," he whispered.

She could see the lust in his eyes and felt her own body edging toward a strange type of awakening as well. It was all wrong, she knew, but so intensely erotic that it pulled like gravity. Her boss wanted her. That alone made her feel naughty and, despite all evidence to the contrary, somewhat empowered. 

She drained the remainder of her spiked coffee in three swallows and then leaned over to set it on the table.

His hands stole this opportunity to move; one tucking farther under her ass and the other covering her left breast.

She straightened and looked into his eyes. Her lips parted, radiating spirits. Both his hands squeezed. Her breath caught. 

She decided maybe she could enjoy this. 

Maybe.

Ian recognized her trace acceptance and circled her left areola through the silk, gently at first but gradually tightening until he pinched her nipple and tugged. 

She winced and inhaled. A tingly sensation zinged all the way to her crotch and back again, looping for as long as he pulled. When he let go she involuntarily sighed. That nipple now stood much prouder than its twin.

"Hoh-kay..." she whispered. "Maybe that's a little much..." 

He pinched her other nipple.

"Sir, please! I'm..."

He pulled, rolling her stiff nub between his thumb and forefinger, saying: "You're going to be a lovely office girl for us, aren't you?"

"Ooh-mm... Mm-him, f'you say so."

Both her nipples were now well-distended.

"Show me," he whispered.

"I already am, sir."

"No. Let it down all the way. I want to see you naked."

"No WAY," she panted, fixing one of her straps at last, unable to suppress that urge any longer. 

He cupped her other breast and squeezed it. His left hand tightened under her ass. 

"You like playing innocent, don't you?" he asked. 

She squirmed, clutching his forearm and trying not to tip toward his face.

"No..." her voice squeaked, clearly affected by the compression being enforced on her. "I... I just think this... this is maybe as far as we should go, sir."

"What's the reason to stop here?" he asked, releasing her boob and then stroking its silk-covered nipple back and forth with one finger while his other hand maintained a firm grip on her butt.

"Please... don't—Ah! Just stop for a sec, sir! A... a little flirting is okay, but I... I can't just—"

He pulled her close, still repeatedly swiping one nipple but also now breathing against her skin as a challenge: "You agreed to certain things in our interview, remember?"

"Yes but—" 

"Part of why I hired you is because I knew you'd be good at this."

"Good—Ah!" she flinched. "Good at what?"

"All of it: flirting, following instructions, relieving me of pent-up stress..."

She twisted in his lap, unnerved by the proximity of his hand to her panties. That's when she noticed the rather obvious erection beneath her.

"But I... I can't like..."

"What can't you do, Tiffany?" he asked, hooking the web of his hand under her breast as if to weigh it, and then squeezing tightly. "What?"

"Hahh! No, sir, come ON—" a squeal interrupted her. "You can't do that."

"Do what?"

"THAT!" she squeezed his wrist for emphasis, resisting its attentions to her chest. "You can't just touch me wherever you want. You're my boss. I can't be your girlfriend."

"Oh... well," he began calmly. "That's okay. I don't want a girlfriend."

They both stalled, waiting for him to drop the other shoe. 

"I was just thinking I'd prefer you to be, you know, a little more affectionate and a lot less modest."

There was a three-second delay before she pushed out of his lap and stood.

Any further response was foreclosed by a knock on the door.

"Come in!" Ian called, his voice betraying zero concern about her reaction or his erection.

Ivan Jacobsen entered the room, carrying two small boxes under his arm. He greeted them with a cheerful: "Good morning!" 

"Hey Ivan," Ian smiled.

"G-good morning, sir," Tiffany stuttered, suddenly twice as nervous. Her smile burgeoned desperately as she fixed her other shoulder strap. "Did you... did you find your paper and coffee?"

Jacobsen strode toward them and handed her the larger of his two boxes, saying: "These are for you, and yes, I did. Thank you." 

She accepted the colored shoebox in both hands.

"Was it okay?" she asked, watching as Ivan set the smaller box onto the coffee table. It was his wet-wipes. 

"It was fine, Tiffany. Why are you so anxious this morning?"

She looked down, not wanting to answer. Her shoulders tightened. She slowly lifted the lid of the shoebox. Tissue concealed the contents until she peeled away the tape.

"Oh... sir!" she breathed.

Inside were two very tall, very minimalistic sandals; glossy nude in color with four-inch stiletto heels. There was no platform under the toe. There was one tiny strap across the foot and another above the ankle. 

She lifted the first one gingerly. 

"Awesome," Ian said. "Those will look way better than what you have on."

"They're so tall," she whispered.

"Do you like them?" Jacobsen asked.

"Well... Yes sir, they're beautiful but... you didn't have to—"

"My pleasure. This was the only pair in your size I found locally, but don't worry, I have other, more interesting styles on the way."

"What?" she asked, looking up.

"Other shoes. It's a predilection of mine. Those things you wore yesterday... and... my goodness, today's even moreso, are tragic. Feet like yours are meant to be celebrated. Now let me help you put them on."

Ian cut-in with an enthusiastic, "Absolutely," pulling Tiffany backward into his lap. She landed with a squeal, sprawled across him.

Jacobsen sank to one knee at her feet and quickly slipped off her low pumps. Within seconds his wet-wipes were at work, busily scouring her petite insteps and toes.

She wriggled and squealed with ticklishness. Ian made matters worse by digging his fingers into her ribs. She tucked her elbows and twisted in his lap, struggling to defend herself from this four-handed attack. Her skirt began to invert itself, leaving her legs bare to the hip. Her white teeth gleamed in a rictus smile as laughter poured from her.

Mitchell's fingers were soon under her silk top, lifting it higher as she squirmed. First her ribs showed and then the under-curve of both breasts.

"Doctor Mitchell!" she squealed, squirming haphazardly. "Stop!"

"Stop what?"

"Tickling! Please! YAA-ah!"

Her abdomen heaved with giggles. She felt like a hammock strung between two men.

Jacobsen kept scrubbing her narrow feet long after they were clean. From his vantage point he could see her panties clearly and made sure to pull her feet toward him so that her skirt rode ever higher. Ian, meanwhile, was very much enjoying his free access to her torso. He kept tickling her but managed to brush, squeeze and paw her puffy young breasts at random intervals, keeping her guessing where his fingers might land.

Tiffany felt like she was about to pee. Her dark blue panties were on full display and very snug to the crease of her shaved labia. She couldn't keep her eyes open and was laughing herself into oxygen deficiency. Her elbows worked hard to defend her sides from Mitchell's fingers, but it was impossible. Soon tears wet her cheeks.

Finally they stopped. Ian draped his arms around her in a loose hug while Jacobsen attached the new shoes to her feet.

She panted, trying to catch her breath. Now she knew she was drunk, and not solely from the whisky.

"There we are!" Jacobsen announced when her new shoes were buckled. "Give us a nice little walk-around so we can see them on you."

They both helped her to her feet. At first she swayed unsteadily. Jacobsen caught her elbow.

"Oh my..." she exclaimed, "they're crazy steep!"

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"I'm... I'm not sure. Maybe. Just don't let go of me yet!" 

She took two steps. Jacobsen remained alongside her, walking backward while staring at her feet. He was smiling.

Her silk top fell back into place, hiding her chest at last. 

Soon Jacobsen released her, setting her free to slowly strut around the room unaided. She was vastly leggy.

"God," she swore as she teetered to Mitchell's desk and turned around. "I'm so tall!"

Busy acclimating to the extreme flexion of her ankles, she failed to notice Doctors Grisholm and Adams stroll through the open door. 

It was eight o'clock.

SCENE FOURTEEN

"Okay," Ian announced. "Time for our staff meeting; everyone grab a seat."

The four doctors arranged themselves without fuss into the leather furniture, leaving Tiffany with nowhere to sit. 

Ian beckoned her to his lap again, this time patting his right knee.

Tiffany scanned the other doctors, realizing she was about to become a pawn in Mitchell's display of rank. She saw how confident he looked; so sure that she would obey.

She rationalized this tipsily, presuming that since he'd been the one to hire her, he was the only one who could fire her. Somehow that made staying in his good graces her job. She tiptoed to the foot of his chair and carefully lowered her bottom onto his thigh, facing the other men. 

She crossed her legs and set her hands on her lap to preserve some semblance of ladylike decorum. Or at least that was her intent; the fact that her bare butt was riding her boss' leg did undercut this effort. She tried ignoring the brevity of her skirt and started bobbing her topmost shin instead, nodding one tall sandal toward the other three doctors.

Ian pulled an agenda from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. Then he hooked his right hand around the small of Tiffany's waist and announced: "Our principal business today is to ratify Tiffany's rules."

Her heartbeat stumbled and then caught-up. All the flirting and tickling had caused her to forget that this meeting was about her. She knotted her fingers together in her lap, trying to provide her stress an exit.

"Firstly;" Ian began. "As we previously discussed, each of you will be responsible for Tiffany's training one day per week. Doctor Grisholm will take Tuesdays, Jacobsen Thursdays and Adams Fridays. Since there are only four of us, I'll take the other two: Mondays and Wednesdays. Agreed?"

Heads nodded around the room. Tiffany looked at each of them in turn.

"When it's your day," he continued, "all disciplinary actions will revert to you. That means if it's NOT your day and you see Tiffany arriving late or making some other mistake, you don't immediately discipline her right then. You simply report it to the partner in charge, and he'll remediate her whenever and however he sees fit. That's to avoid the waterfall effect of punishment delays, which would otherwise be unfair to Tiffany. Understood?"

There were nods around the half-circle again. 

She became unsteady. Her torso tipped toward Ian's shoulder and she put a hand down to catch herself, quite by accident landing her fingers across his penis.

He grunted. She jerked upright, removing her hand as fast as she could.

He shook his paper agenda once and continued, with slightly more inflection.

"The next item concerns Tiffany's attire. During patient visits, she must be allowed to wear shoes... and at least one item of clothing that could be considered business-appropriate. During all other times her attire shall be subject to our collective discretion. The only caveat is that it should complement her feminine charms, so as to enliven the mood around here. Are we all still in agreement on that?"

More nods. 

"Wait! Hh-Ha-hold on," Tiffany stammered, at last finding her voice. "That's a joke, right? You guys aren't gonna just dress me however you want... right?"

"We'll help you through it," Ian said soothingly. "It won't be complicated."

"But, I... I at least need a vote or a... a... whatchamacallit. I can't just let—"

"A veto?" Grisholm suggested.

"Yeah! A veto."

"Don't worry so much," Ian cut them both off. "Clothes are just an artifice. Plus, you get to keep anything we bring-in, so it's a win-win. The important stuff is next."

Her carotid arteries throbbed against the choker. These rules seemed crazy, all about punishments and skimpy clothes, but alcohol delayed her judgment.

Ian took her left hand and casually relocated it onto his erection. She gave him a shocked look but he just smiled as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He held her hand there and patted it, making clear she was to leave it. 

She clenched her teeth and twisted slightly, trying to make her new pose look uncontrived. She was sure the other doctors all noticed. 

'Jesus,' she realized. 'He actually wants them to see.'

She tried not to dwell on the foreign heartbeat pulsing under her palm, but it was no use. It became her sole focus. 

"While we are on the subject of clothes," Ian continued with new happiness. "I'd like to make one preemptive suggestion, which is that we should outlaw bras. Do you all agree?"

Smiles and affirmations came from the other three doctors.

"Good. That's settled then, Tiff'. You can leave you bras at home from now on, just like today."

"But—"

"The next point," he continued briskly, "is vital. Team cohesion is what sets us apart, so... being the only girl Tiffany is not allowed to play favorites. She must treat each partner with equal affection and deference."

"Right," Grisholm concurred softly. Adams and Jacobsen merely nodded.

Tiffany's mind was still processing the no-bra rule and the erection in her hand.

"For example," Ian continued, "Give me a quick kiss."

"What?" she startled, spinning her face toward his.

"A kiss," he reiterated, laying his agenda across the arm of his chair. "You know, like a greeting kiss; a token of affection."




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 03



"But, um... N—"

Before she could voice any objection his finger was through her choker's D-ring, pulling her down onto his face. His lips captured hers mid-word, cutting her off. He kissed her gently at first but then used his tongue.

"Mmm!" she squirmed, belatedly aware that she was clutching his penis rather tightly.

"Good," he broke away, pushing her back upright. "Now, go sit in Doctor Adams' lap and give him one of those too."

She shot to her feet - out of surprise more than any intent to obey. She wobbled atop her new shoes, mouth open and fists clenched. 

The words hung in the air, slowly penetrating her buzzed brain.

She glanced over at Adams. 

He was next-nearest, sitting to Jacobsen's right on the loveseat. He looked cool as a cucumber, maintaining that easy half-smile she remembered from the day before.

"You want," she stammered in disbelief, returning her gaze to Ian. "You want me to kiss him, too?" 

"Yes. You must treat everyone the same. No favorites."

"But—I mean... No."

"Just go kiss him, Tiffany. We still have a long way to go here."

"But I—" 

Her vision wavered, as though the room was rotating on a warped LP. Her memory of the overnight hours, of all her dreamed-up kisses with Adams, returned. He was the reason she was so tired. He was the reason she had returned. But the idea of kissing him like THIS... in front of everyone... was a nightmare.

"You don't have to marry him," Ian prodded her. "Just a quick show of affection."

Adams spread his palms innocently and gave her a goofy shrug, as if to say: 'I don't want to do this either, but let's just play along.'

She exhaled through pursed lips, swaying slightly above her steep shoes. Her whisky-breath reminded her of a time she'd let a stranger kiss her at an Irish bar back home. Her hands began to sweat. 

She took a step toward him.

Never, actually, did she make up her mind to do it. She just found herself doing it; taking the next two steps, leaning over, draping her hands over his shoulders and kissing him right on the mouth. He reached up and held her there, wrists grazing the sides of her dangling boobs while his mouth worked itself up into hers. 

His tongue was not shy, sliding all around, challenging hers to a mini wrestling match.

She felt her knees dip. Her left foot lifted behind her. Everything she'd fantasized about suddenly seemed real.

The other three doctors watched as her short skirt tilted way up, exposing her tanned backside from ankle to ass.

She got so lost in Adams' kiss that she collapsed onto him. He caught her easily, turning her so she landed across his lap, still twisted toward him. Their mouths never separated. His fingers creased her silk top, kneading her tits.

Finally he broke the kiss. Her chin was wet. Everyone was staring.

Ian cleared his throat and then said softly: "See? That wasn't so hard. Now it's Jacobsen's turn."

Tiffany's eyes were still closed. Adams had to physically turn her face back toward Ian before she opened them and regained her equilibrium. 

"Jacobsen now, please," he repeated.

She covered her mouth as it finally dawned on her: "I... I have to kiss everyone?" 

"Yes. I don't want anyone feeling jealous about you. So you have to be fair." 

"But—"

"Ivan," Ian said, looking to Jacobsen who was seated behind her. "Would you please kiss Tiffany now?"

"Alright," he answered calmly.

She felt Adams release her. New hands hauled her backward. Suddenly she was reclined across both men's laps with her head on Jacobsen's thigh and her breasts aimed at the ceiling, mostly flattened by gravity. She had only enough time to inhale before being smothered by a demanding French kiss. 

"MmmMM!" she complained, pushing against him with both arms. 

Jacobsen clutched her hair to keep her still and began tweaking her nipples through the silk.

It was all very unsubtle, Ivan's effort to out-do his first two partners. Not only did he push his kiss deeper into her mouth, but his right hand soon went under her top, blatantly manhandling her swollen young tits.

Trapped by his grip on her hair, Tiffany writhed and kicked. This worsened her panties' exposure.

Eventually, after almost a minute, Ivan broke off. He straightened up and released her. 

She rolled off him and onto the floor in a single motion and then staggered from her knees to her feet. A distinct new taste polluted her mouth and her nipples ached.

"What the hell?!" she wheezed. "You can't DO that!" 

"Sorry," Jacobsen said. "Was I too abrupt?"

"Yes! I'm not... I'm not a TOY!"

"Okay, duly noted. Your nipples are sensitive."

"Tiffany?" Ian interrupted. "Now Doctor Grisholm please."

She spun to face Mitchell with as much fury as she could muster but was quite unready to speak to him. Her entire body was abuzz. All her life she'd never imagined kissing three men in a row like that, and now her boss expected her to kiss a fourth. She pushed her hair back and re-fixed her headband.

"No," she said flatly. "I get the message, okay? No favorites."

"So then kiss me," Grisholm chimed-in from the roll-arm chair directly behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder at him and then back at Mitchell, hoping for something other than what she saw.

Ian gestured for her to hurry up.

She almost told him to fuck-off, but instead noticed Adams looking her up and down. The pang of wantonness she felt for him was like an opiate. It excused everything. 

She took a deep breath and slowly turned around, thinking, 'I can't believe this.' 

Grisholm was seated in a very relaxed posture, knees wide, forearms flush to the bolsters of his chair. His eyelids were narrow, however, betraying a suspicion that she might refuse.

"Affectionately," he stipulated.

She looked down at him, realizing he had just seen her kiss all three of his partners, quite willingly in one case, and that it would be hurtful were she to delay any longer.

Stepping close, she suppressed her distaste and bent from the waist until her hands were on the back of his chair. Her breasts slung forward, straining against the thin straps of her top. 

Grisholm's dark eyes flicked down to capture the approaching flood of her cleavage but then returned to hers. His head tipped back and his lips parted. 

Her short hair draped forward, enshrouding him. The lower half of her ass and blue g-string once again peeked at the room.

She set her lips onto Grisholm's and kissed. His hands made no move. He just lay there, making her do all the work. With every passing instant his quietude in the face of her mouth's indulgence evinced a far deeper self-control than any of his partners possessed.

She broke away gradually. A strand of spit briefly connected them.

There was silence. 

She had expected to feel repulsed, but now that she'd kissed him her whole opinion changed. He was the only one who hadn't pawed her body. He was the only one who didn't seem desperate. His kiss had felt kind, yet manly.

"That was nice," he said, looking up at her with a smile that crinkled his eyes. "You didn't sit in my lap, like the others, but we can do that later."

She found herself nodding at him, which appalled her completely.

"Thanks everyone," Ian interrupted. "Let's move on."

Her feet, so elevated by their new sandals, slowly inched through a half-circle as she reviewed the chain of men she'd just kissed. 

She felt wildly alive, as well as terrified by her own latent potential.

"Next item:" Ian continued, "Tips and gratuities. We talked about this earlier, gentlemen, and you may remember from T's resume that she spent many summers working in restaurants. Her basic hourly wage here is not high, so I suggested it'd be a good to formally encourage her with cash from time to time, as a way of recognizing excellent service. Do you all still agree?"

"Yes," the other three doctors announced in unison.

"Good. That's settled then."

"Wait... I get tips now?" she asked, belatedly hearing the words through her tipsy, over-sexed fog.

"They're not automatic, Sweetheart. For instance, I suspect you'll need to do something really special to get any money out of those two parsimonious bastards on the sofa." 

He chuckled and flicked his chin lightheartedly toward Adams and Jacobsen.

They scowled back.

She looked at them and then back at Ian. "Like what?"

Every man smiled in a different way, each imagining some fantastic response while pouring their eyes over her like syrup on a pancake. She moved her hands to her hips and canted her weight to one side.

"Nuh-Uh!" she blurted, sounding far more coquettish than intended. She quickly added: "Just no, okay? Get those dirty thoughts out of your minds!"

Everyone grinned harder. 

Ian shaded his face to conceal his glee, whispering: "Dear Lord, thank you." 

He couldn't believe how much fun this was.

"Next up:" he resumed loudly, stifling his grin, "is patient-care. Everyone must remember that our patients' needs come first. I don't care if Tiffany is naked and tied to a chair in your office, if you've got a patient waiting, you need to stop and help that person. Clear?"

Every muscle in her body tweaked. She had to adjust her feet to stay vertical.

The other three doctors chuckled, not because of Mitchell's words, but because of her reaction.

"Hol-hol-hold on!" she stuttered. "Why would I be tied to a chair!? Or naked!?"

"Oh, I don't know," Ian sighed, beautifully feigning annoyance. "Disciplinary reasons, I suppose? It was just a random example."

"I don't wanna be tied-up... or naked!"

"Well... then I guess you'd better learn quickly."

"No! You can't just say things like that! I have rights like, not to be molested... or whatever."

"Yes, and we'll get to that in just a minute."

"Or spanked!" she added bravely, crossing her arms and daring him.

Mitchell fixed her with a look. A moment of tension stilled the room.

"Actually," he said, "your employment agreement stipulates consent to certain disciplinary measures, spanking being one of them so... technically; on that point you're wrong."

"What?"

"Your employment agreement; the thing you signed over the weekend? Remember you gave it to me Monday morning?"

"It... didn't say—"

"Did you read it?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Well, I... I don't remember that part."

"Section Seventeen, if I recall. It's right over there on my desk if you want to fetch it."

"No."

"So you admit you didn't read it? You signed a volitional contract without even bothering to know what was in it?"

"No, I..."

"Don't lie. Our relationship is based on trust."

"But sir, I—"

"Did you, or did you not, read your entire contract?"

"I... I guess not all of it. I didn't think—"

"What kind of a message does that send about your attention to detail?"

"Um..."

"How are we supposed to trust you with our patients' vital records if you can't even be bothered to understand something that so directly affects your own welfare?"

"Can I read it now?"

"To what end?" he exclaimed, raising his voice for the first time. "You already signed it!"

"Don't be mad, sir, please. I just—"

"Grisholm," Ian said, cutting her off to address his partner instead. "Since today is your day in charge of Tiffany's discipline, I'll leave this to you... but I feel a significant remedy may be needed here, to remind her to be more diligent and attentive to detail."

"Mm-hm," Grisholm nodded. 

"No. Wait," she pleaded. "I'll read it! I'll read it right now."

"No. Stay where you are," Ian insisted. "Grisholm will decide when and under what conditions you will read your contract. If we had more time I'd recommend you read it aloud to all of us, right here, while being spanked for the duration. But I'm leaving that decision to him."

Tiffany's eyes widened incredibly, showing an acre of white around each iris. She shook her head side-to-side. 

Grisholm tented his fingers, deep in thought. Adams and Jacobsen covered their smiles.

"I..." Tiffany began uncertainly. "I don't think... I'm just not sure I can... do this job, sir."

"Are you quitting?" Ian asked, noticing her lips trembling.

"I need... the work, sir, but I can't just... these thing you're making me do, like—"

"We're training you, Tiffany. Every job requires training. Once you learn your new role, you won't need so many reminders."

"I know, but—"

"If you quit, this job will be gone. There is another girl; Kelsey I think her name was, who called right after you. She lives in Grand Junction and sounded very motivated - something about not being able to pay her tuition and being harassed by a collections agent. She said she'd be willing to commute all the way here, every day."

"Yes, sir."

"What I'm telling you is that there won't be a second chance. This is a good, full-time job with benefits and financial upside if you work hard. And I think you'll find it relatively easy and fun once you're trained."

She nodded and wiped one eye.

"All you need to decide is:" he continued carefully, at a lower volume. "Are you willing to be trained?"

Tiffany's respirations became unsteady; animating her silk top. She glanced around, furtively seeking reassurance in each face but finding little. Her knees brushed back and forth while she fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, folding the suede around her fingers. Inside her mind the lengthening silence was like a pry-bar. 

A tear dripped from her eye, streaking her shell. 

"Sweetheart," Ian continued, softly this time. "We all want you to stay. We all think you're wonderful. But you need to accept your punishments."

"I know but," she began, wiping her eyes. "I can't just—"

She sobbed once, under her breath, wishing she were sober. She knew quitting was too important a decision to make buzzed.

"It really boils down to just one question."

"It... it does?"

"Yes. Are you, in light of everything this job provides; steady pay, good benefits, medical office experience, a better resume and a chance at tips and raises... are you willing, in exchange for all that, to be spanked?"

Her lips slowly parted as she looked at him. The sound and thrill of Jacobsen's spanking replayed inside her head. Her breathing became damp. She lost the ability to hold his gaze and dropped her eyes. 

"Are you?" he prodded. 

His proposition trickled through her, melting the edges of her resistance. She crossed her feet and whispered: 

"But... if I say ye—yes then... at least may I keep... my panties on?"

"You mean when we spank you?"

She nodded, still clutching her skirt. 

"No."

It struck her like a whip, that unqualified denial. She coughed; expectorating all vanity, then bit her bottom lip so hard it turned white. Her nostrils flared. 

Silence hung in the room, awaiting her capitulation. Finally her shoulders sagged, her features scrunched and she spun around to hide, eyes shut tight and hands across her butt as if expecting some incipient pain.

"Humiliation," Ian continued, leaning forward in his chair, "is the most effective teacher of all. You know that."

She nodded.

"Is that a yes?"

She nodded again, unable to speak.

"You accept your spankings and the rest of the training protocols, including your outfits?"

"Y—yes."

"Good!" he grinned. "I'm glad you came 'round. You had me worried there for a moment."

"Sah—sorry sir."

Ian suggested she return to his lap before she fell over.

Still facing away, she wiped both eyes and inhaled deeply. Surrender's unfamiliar release penetrated her sinews like a salve. Her breathing stabilized. 

She loitered moments longer, promising herself over and over that everything was going to be okay until, after a final sob and a rub of her nose, she swiveled around.

The four doctors' faces all seemed friendlier. They regarded her warmly, like a new relative. She thought Mitchell looked especially pleased.

She slunk to him, then turned and sat; aware that all the men's eyes were tracking her. Once seated she folded herself against his shoulder, emotionally spent and longing for comfort. Her legs slowly crossed, showing miles of toned, tanned thigh.

Ian moved her petite hand onto his penis again. 

She emitted no noise but closed her eyes. She had no desire to witness their ogling. She just wanted peace.

"Final rule:" Ian announced, "No one may have intercourse with Tiffany without her consent."

She coughed for a second time, re-experiencing the urge to cry. Her head burrowed into Ian's shoulder, rocking side to side.

"And by consent," he continued, unmoved, "I mean Tiffany must be lucid and begging for it. Hypnosis doesn't count, okay Grisholm?"

Grisholm raised his hands in mock astonishment. The others jeered.

Tiffany felt herself free-falling through space. It occurred to her she might vomit. What remained of her ego screamed that this latest rule shouldn't be necessary, that its very existence was a portent of impossible awfulness. She withdrew her hand from Ian's erection and managed to utter a subtle: 

"No."

"You have an objection to that one?" he asked incredulously. "Why? Is the threshold too high?"

She lifted her face and whispered: "No, I... It's just—" 

"Then what?"

"I... I don't want to have... that," she glanced around, expression wilting, "...with anyone. I'm not like that; I just want my job."

"You've got your job." Ian countered smoothly, "for the time being at least. Anyway, there's nothing in these rules that compels you to have intercourse with anyone. On the contrary, it's forbidden. Unless you beg for it."

"But...then why even—?"

"All you have to do is not beg for it. That seems fair."

"I would... never—"

"Never is a big word, but okay, continue."

"I won't, sir... ever. I'm serious."

"So am I. No intercourse."

"Promise?"

"Unless you beg for it."

"Which I won't."

"Right."

A pregnant silence followed. She thought she had done okay, maybe fought him to a draw, but Ian knew better. To him this was all just foreplay.

"I'm moving on now," he said. "Is that alright with you?"

She felt exhausted. Her eyelids narrowed and she nodded.

He tugged her fingers back onto his cock.

Her expression went through a sequence of impulses; from fatigue to anger to sadness to resignation and then to quiescence, all within a matter of seconds. 

He loved it. She was so endearing.

He added pressure to her hand and intentionally pulsed his erection to make sure she felt how hard he was. Her eyes and mouth briefly widened, displaying their habitual wonderment, but her hand did not pull away. 

Instead she hid her face in his shoulder. 

Ian sensed her warmth. He guessed he would be inside her by Friday; or at latest by the weekend. 

"Nice job finding that choker," he segued happily, looking across the table. "It's perfect."

"I got lucky," Grisholm replied, smiling in his seat.

"Yes, I think we all did. She's going to make a lovely office girl."

"Here, here!" Jacobsen seconded.

"For sure," Adams added. "She's a sweet one."

Mitchell grinned and pulled her closer. Then he picked up his agenda.

Tiffany kept her eyes closed and cringed. She didn't want to hear any more talk. She just wanted to be somewhere dark. She breathed into her boss' collar, imbibing his scent and the sturdiness of his body. When he spoke his voice reverberated through her like a purr. She willed herself to feel safe. 

The erection in her hand felt thick. Without thinking, she slid her fingers to its tip.

Ian's voice cracked.

She cursed herself for having done it, wishing she could rewind that impulse. But suddenly something else derailed her regret; a tickle her crotch, deep inside. 

She adjusted her legs. She was leaking.

Instantly she jerked upright, mouth aghast with shock. It felt like a stick of butter had just melted within her. She flattened both palms across the gap between her thighs, panicked that her bosses would see her underwear soak through or, God forbid, SMELL her. Worse yet, she knew she was about to leave a wet mark on Mitchell's trousers. She jumped to her feet and hurried to the empty side of the coffee table.




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 03



With her hands still overlapped at her crotch she stood there, facing the men.

"Is everything okay?" Ian asked, breaking away from his notes.

"Yes fine sir," she blurted. "I'm fine, I... I'd just like to stand please... for the rest of the meeting."

"Um... alright, we'll continue...almost done anyhow." 

He checked his watch and resumed speaking, telling the others about his growth targets for the family-planning side of the business.

The others all eyed her suspiciously.

SCENE FIFTEEN

After the meeting, she found herself whisked into Grisholm's office by the arm. 

The décor inside surprised her. The walls were densely hung with sub-equatorial artifacts and the floor was overlaid with Persian rugs. All the furniture was of dark mahogany and cane. Bright cushions of silk, with jaunty tassels at each corner, were arranged in every conceivable seating area.

"Wow," she said, trying to conceal her stress. "Did you do all this?"

"I travel a lot," he replied, shutting the door. "Ever since my divorce, that's been my hobby."

"Oh. It's nice."

"Thank you. Everything in here reminds me of someplace I've been."

"I like those spears up there," she said, pointing at the wall behind his desk. "Are they real?"

"Yes. Quite sharp, too."

Grisholm resisted the impulse to provide her a tour. Most of his local patients were already bored of his collection, having seen it more times than they cared to. The chance to expound on the beauty of each piece was a rare treat, but he abstained. He wanted to maintain the tension that had delivered Tiffany into such an exquisite state.

"I've been thinking," he said, leaning onto his big desk and looking her up and down. "...about your training."

She swallowed and then made an affirmative sound.

"Details can seem boring; I get that, but as you just discovered they can also be vitally important."

"I understand, sir. I'm totally sorry about my contract."

"Actually you don't need to apologize to me. It's Doctor Mitchell who will need sucking-up-to if you want to get back on his good side. I'm only doing this because it's my day."

"Oh."

"Which brings us to your spanking."

"But—" 

"Yes, I like Mitchell's idea of having your read something... but rather than your contract, which is awfully dry and which I'm sure you'll study on your own time anyway, I think it would be good to broaden your mind a bit. Have you ever tried Herodotus?"

"Uh... I don't think so. Is that like, some ancient Greek thing?"

"He is regarded as the father of history."

"Oh-kay..."

"It's a crime that so few people read him anymore. All our human foibles are recorded, as well as the great tragedy of two civilizations in combat. In fact it couldn't be timelier, despite being twenty-five hundred years old."

She was looking past him, studying some wooden masks on the far wall.

"Are you paying attention?"

"Yes! Yes, sir. You were explaining about the history guy."

"Oh forget it," he grouched, pointing. "Just go lean over the chaise there. I'll bring you the book."

"Right now, sir?" she blinked.

"Yes of course now. We open in less than an hour."

Grisholm went behind his desk and extracted a leather-bound volume from one of the shelves. 

Tiffany looked at the counselling chaise. It was a wide, antique-looking piece, positioned alongside the common wall shared by Mitchell's office and this one. The headrest faced the window's natural light. It was stacked with small pillows. An ornate, faded tapestry covered the wall above it.

"Let's go please," he hurried her.

She took a few steps toward the lounge, hugging her forearms and pleading: "But... isn't there some... something else I could do?"

"Pay more attention to detail?" he joked.

"No, I mean... instead of my spanking?"

Grisholm escorted her by the elbow to the very edge of the chaise and asked: "Why? Are you nervous?" 

Her eyes answered that question, staring into his in abject fright. She nodded.

He ignored her and opened the old book to the Introduction's first page. He laid it face-up on a pillow in front of her, halfway across the width of the chaise.

"Bend over," he said. "This introduction was written by a modern historian, but it will give you a good overview of Herodotus' importance. It's only six pages long."

Tiffany glanced down at the book, then back at Grisholm. "You... you want me to read it?"

"Aloud. Yes."

"While you...?"

"Administer your spanking. Yes."

"But—"

"Now, please. Feet together. I don't want to ask you again."

She reluctantly tipped forward from the waist, aware she had already agreed to this. She placed her fists astride the small book, denting the chaise. Her alcohol-infused brain struggled to offer any semblance of contra-argument, but what came out was less than convincing: "Are you sure we can't... do a different punishment?"

"Hmm," he replied while flipping the rear of her skirt up. The silk-lined suede, being too supple and slippery to stay in that position, immediately unrolled back down her ass. 

He tried again, still ignoring her question, this time inverting the back of her skirt completely. The open triangle of her g-string made his eyes widen with delight. As soon as he released the suede however, it slithered back into position.

"Well!" he exclaimed. "That certainly won't do."

He pulled the leather cords at her right hip, untying the bow which held the garment in place.

She gasped as his hands slid quickly around her, finding and breaking the Velcro attachment with a short, tearing stroke.

"There!" he exulted, pulling the skirt off her like a magician revealing a rabbit.

"Oh my God, sir!" she squealed. "Why do I hafta be so naked?!"

"We're not done yet," he reminder her, barely able to feign calm. The sight of her ass was already better than he'd dreamed. 

Her pose was superb. Precipitously balanced atop the high heels, her legs were beautifully flexed. Long muscles showed, rising from her calves to her upper thighs before being subsumed by her ass' twin hills. Her g-string's three satin bands diverged from the corners of the triangle framing her pale tailbone. The central one descended from there, becoming nearly lost between her lobes; visible only due to the spreading effect of her bent posture. 

Grisholm reached down and touched her skin. Its moisturized texture spoiled his senses like a lab-grade drug, smooth and instantly addictive. He spread his fingertips and then pinched the side-straps of her underwear. 

Slowly, slowly he began to peel them down.

Tiffany swore.

Infatuation took hold of his brain. Images seared their way into permanent memory. Absolutely nothing, at that instant, could have distracted him. Not even a heart-attack, which, incidentally, his cardiologist had been warning him of recently.

He peeled down her flimsy panties as slowly as possible. First the triangle inverted, revealing her tan lines. Then the satin center-seam curled back by degrees, showing him in sequence the tip of her coccyx, her tight anus, her perineum's narrow bridge and, finally, the hairless gloss of her outer labia.

He couldn't believe he was experiencing this; it was like staring into the Ark of the Covenant and surviving. Valves in his heart beat a two-step rhythm.

From Tiffany's perspective the slow, ticklish decent of her underwear combined the best and worst aspects of her day; it was agonizing in its eroticism and total in its disgrace.

When at last the slender thing fell away, they both reflexively shivered.

Grisholm chased it down to her ankles, lowering himself to one knee. Then he looked up, grasped her naked hips and simply beheld her. 

She closed her eyes. The anticipation of what was to come made her buttocks pinch together. 

"Tiffany?" he breathed.

"Yes?"

"Was there something else you had in mind?"

"Nn—no sir, just... anything but this."

He studied her suppleness. He heard the anxiousness of her breathing. 

The mound of her vulva looked greasy and snug between her uppermost thighs. He could only imagine how wet she was in there. 

He ducked his head closer, inhaling. She flinched at the touch of his nose, emitting a squeak. 

"You're dripping," he whispered.

"No..." she whined, hanging her head. "Don't say that."

"Do you understand why you're so aroused right now?"

"Nn... no."

He gently pried her open, squeezing her soft ass. The weeping petals of her inner labia came to light, thickly glossed and impossibly small.

"You like being told what to do, Tiffany. That's why."

"No... no that's not—"

"Yes. You're a passenger."

"I'm... a what?"

"You can't admit your sexual desires, so they just build and build while you wait, longing for someone else to take your wheel and drive."

"No. No."

"Oh yes. That's why your body is so desperate...it's begging to be taken places you can't even name."

"No... I'm... I'm just scared. I'm trying to be good. I'm a giver."

"That's all surface-stuff. What lies beneath is your desire to be ravished, expertly and thoroughly, without permission... without being culpable."

"No. No, you're making me. You... you're not supposed to do this."

Grisholm stood and gently cupped her sex.

She gasped, her whole body tensing at the lightness of his touch.

"Stop doubting me," he instructed. "And put your hands behind your back."

Her head twisted and a hesitant noise escaped her, so he pressed his thumb down on her perineum.

"Now," he added. 

Immediately she set her forehead onto the chaise and moved both hands to the base of her spine, tight together.

"Good girl," he said, brushing her clit with his fingers.

She whimpered, ecstatic with vulnerability. 

He adjusted his touch, rocking the hood of her clit. The pad of his thumb smeared downward through her frictionless nectar, squashing the petals of her entrance.

"Please no. Not that."

"Your body is telling me otherwise. Feel how wet you are?"

Her eyes were shut, unable to face this truth. She knew exactly how wet she was.

Grisholm went on stirring her, approaching her clit's most sensitive spot without touching it. Her knees began to flutter.

"I am in charge of you today," he said in low tone. "So I will decide how this goes, understand?"

He waited until an airy, "Yes sir," escaped her

Then he pressed his thumb into her from behind, almost all the way. Her spine arched and she moaned aloud, dragging her face across the chaise in joyful panic. 

He grabbed her overlapped wrists tightly, securing her in position while manipulating her drooling sex this way and that.

"Oh God! Oh God!" she repeated, twisting her head, knocking the leather-bound Herodotus from its pillow. It closed. Her legs flexed. Her headband fell forward over her eyes. 

Now unable to see, her every tactile sense was magnified. Her boss' thumb strove inside her, deeper and deeper, while his fingertips massaged her clit. 

High-pitched gasps of feedback escaped her mouth, murdering the remains of her disguise. 

"Wherever I touch you," his voice rumbled, "you love it."

Her vagina twanged upon hearing this and she lost balance, pulling one knee up onto the chaise to keep from toppling. Grisholm immediately took advantage of her widened posture, intensifying his ministrations.

She struggled to free her wrists but couldn't. 

Her diminutive sex was so awash that his fingers began to drip. 

With his thumb deep inside, he gripped her entire mons pubis and lifted, shaking her. She cried out and quaked, mouth agape, inhaling her own hair. Her other foot came off the floor. She ended up with both knees on the chaise. 

He pushed her forward into the stacked pillows and opened her pelvis completely, doggie-style. The silk shell slid up her back. Her breasts were squashed, naked against the upholstery. 

Grisholm hand-fucked her until her headband fell off. Her pink inner petals were licking his thumb, drooling all over it. 

He'd never experienced a girl so slimy.

After hearing her cry with excitement he withdrew and wiped that forearm across his sweating face. Seeing her like this was almost too much to bear. Her feet were splayed, their sharp sandals pointing outward at right angles. Her pouting, upturned crotch beckoned him, begging for more. 

His self-control vanished. He sank to his knees behind her, hooking his arms between her legs to widen them. Before she could move he re-grabbed her wrists from below and secured her like this; with her forearms pinned behind her. 

Then he buried his face into her from behind, lifting and widening his own arms to splay her. 

She squealed and thrashed, completely overwhelmed by the sensation of his big stubbly man-mouth attacking her privates. Her legs flailed, trying to fight, but were weightless atop his shoulders. She was recurved, face beneath the pillows and pussy buttressed by his face. Her soft buttocks quavered in the air.

He slurped her entire vulva into his mouth, nodding up and down, lapping at her folds while his nose tickled her ass. 

She wept with pleasure while begging him to stop, offering anything he wanted in return. He couldn't even hear her; being too deep between her thighs and far too busy with her pussy. 

He was using his whole face, smothering himself against her, sucking her clit out from under its hood, sliding his tongue all over, sometimes penetrating her but mostly working her nub. His nose was submerged in her wetness. 

"Faaahhhhck!!" she screamed, writhing in his grip. Her spittle sprayed the silk pillows. Her thighs clamped tight, blocking his ears.

Release ascended within her like a firework, riding a blaze of long-stored fuel into the untracked wilds of her libido.

He began rolling her clit between his lips, pulling and flicking it side-to-side.

She fought her onrushing orgasm, not wanting to confess so much so quickly, but his bristly mouth felt too good and too hot. 

She lost feeling in her tightly-held wrists. Her head was deep under the pillows, sideways and humid with sweat. Her chest squirmed all over the chaise. Her airborne feet pointed and kicked.

He started to growl into her, sending low baritone vibrations throughout her pelvis. 

For her body, this was the last straw; it quit trying to get free and instead began humping his face, grinding her mons against him and moaning loudly as her inhibitions all buckled at once. 

Her climax incepted with a bright flash, convulsing her torso. She twisted and turned with shame, destabilizing them both until he tipped forward, which pushed her deeper into the pillows. Her head bumped the wall. His tongue licked her anus.

She came with a scream, legs pin-straight as her entire groin clenched. 

He wiggled side-to-side between her buttocks, probing and growling, exultant in his own experience. Raising her hips higher he forced his tongue inward as far as he could. Sweet tang coated his chin and dribbled off her clit. Her stilettos stabbed the air behind him.

For many seconds he held her like this; a hungry fulcrum extending the arc of her climax.

When it was over at last, he let go of her wrists and helped her knees find their way back onto the chaise. 

Then he stood, perhaps a little too quickly.

Her face emerged from the pillows, astounded by pleasure's unbidden glow. She twisted to look back at him.

"Please," she begged. "Please don't tell anyone!"

He gazed down at her trembling curves, unaware that he was forgetting to breathe. He couldn't believe what he'd just done. He'd made her come, epically, against her will!

His erection was so full that he attributed his lightheadedness to it. His vision began to narrow, greying around the edges until Tiffany's nakedness was all that remained. 

Without a sound he crumpled, losing consciousness before even hitting the rug. 

He never heard her scream, nor felt her scramble to his side.

"Doctor Grisholm!" she shouted, kneeling over him and trying to lift his slack head. "Doctor Grisholm, wake up!"

She was about to run for help when he came-to with a lurch, brushing her away defensively before realizing who she was.

"Oh my God, you almost died!!" she shrieked.

He groaned and rolled onto one elbow, waving her off dismissively. She tried to help him sit up and asked: "Should I get Doctor Mitchell?"

"No," he said with certainty. "I'm fine."

"You fell so hard! Everything shook."

He inched his way across the floor to his mahogany desk. Once there, he propped his back against it with a sigh. His stout legs stuck out across the rug, slightly spread.

"Stop worrying," he continued softly. "And don't tell anyone."

"But sir!" she protested, still on her knees beside him. 

He held a finger to his lips, then after a pause said: "I... I stood up too quickly, that's all. I remember you asking me not to tell anyone. I remember, see? I'm fine."

"Oh come on! Really?"

"We each... know a secret now. Remember that."

"I'll go get Mitchell. He's right next door."

"No. Don't. Just tell me the time."

Tiffany wore no watch so she glanced around the room, eventually spying an antique mantel clock on one of his bookshelves.

"Nine forty," she said.

He rubbed his face and muttered: "Twenty minutes."

"What?"

"Twenty minutes. That's how long we have."

She was still naked aside from her shell and shoes. "What can I do?" she asked.

"Well... I guess I'm supposed to be spanking you, not sitting here on the floor like an ass."

She chuckled, relieved to hear him joking. "Well, I'm glad about that part sir. I really didn't want another spanking. I'm still sore."

"Sore?"

She nodded. "Doctor Jacobsen does it really hard."

"Is that why you wanted a different punishment?"

"Yeah. I'd've done anything else."

"Anything, huh?"

"Well... n—" 

"Alright. I tell you what; go to my bottom drawer, on the left, and bring me the two Ziploc bags."

Tiffany stood. She was so certain that he was asking for heart medicine or some other practical help that she remained unselfconscious about her nudity as she walked behind his desk and opened the correct drawer.

Inside lay a pair of bulky one-gallon freezer bags, crowded with colorful sex toys. They were the ones he'd purchased Monday night in town while she waited in his truck. He had hand-washed them all at home before bringing them in.

"What on Earth?" she exclaimed.

"Just bring 'em here."

She returned to his side slowly, dangling the bags from her outstretched arms as though they contained a virus. When she got within reach, he took them and beckoned her to sit.

She glanced around for her skirt and underwear, then realized she knew better.

"Right here," he drawled, gesturing across his lap. "To make up for earlier; and face me."

Butterflies re-appeared in her tummy as she looked at his smiling, moon-like face.

"Straddle you?" she asked softly.

"Exactly. It's time for your training."

"But sir, you—"

"Don't start questioning me now that you've had your fun. There is an entire day ahead of us; plenty of time for spankings if you'd prefer."

"No sir, I, I..."

She swung one foot over him and slowly squatted, eventually sinking to her knees with her thighs wide across his. Her naked crotch hovered a few inches from his fly. Her bra-less chest wobbled in its silk. He grabbed her hips and tugged her closer, so her nipples were near his mouth.

"Good girl," he announced. "This won't take long."

She bit her bottom lip at the sound of him opening a Ziploc bag behind her. She tried to look, but he shook his head.

"No peeking."

"Why? What are you doing?"

"I'm going to teach you."

"Teach me what?"

"You'll know."

She heard a buzzing sound and then Grisholm handed her something small. She looked down. It was a bullet-vibrator, two inches long and silver. Its rounded shell was blurred by motion. 




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 03



"Touch yourself, Tiffany, with that; right where we talked about."

Her eyes flicked up to his. Her blush deepened. "Now? In front of you?"

"Yes. And look at me while you do it."

Her shoulders cringed forward, squashing her breasts together. But she knew she wanted this. 

Everything he'd told her so far had felt good. She was starting to believe he understood her fantasy-world better even than she. And maybe, she thought while looking into his dark eyes, maybe she really was a passenger, sexually-speaking at least. 

He stared right back, unforgivingly perceptive.

"I've..." she whispered, looking back down at her hand. "I've never had one of these."

"Never?"

She shook her head.

"Oh Jesus, Tiff'... I have so much to show you. Now put that on your clit and look at me."

She lowered the little toy down until it was against her trimmed pubes, then paused, not quite brave enough to continue. She looked up at him, needing more.

"Lower," he said. 

She crept the buzzing thing down, sliding it onto her clit's swollen hood. Instantly her eyes flashed wide as pleasure rushed in.

"Find that spot," he instructed her sternly. 

She was aware of his arms moving around, brushing her hips as they fiddled with something behind her. The vibrator soon eclipsed that awareness, however, at the very moment it touched the right side of her clit.

"HHHNNG! N'God!" she whined. Fresh flames of joy lit her crotch, reaching high into her core. 

"Yes!" Grisholm hissed, relishing her expression. "Keep it right there!"

She fought for control of the little bullet, trying to do as instructed but almost fumbling it in her slippery juice. Keeping it on her most sensitive spot was too much to ask. It was too strong and too outrageous in its effect. Her eyes rolled back. 

Grisholm lifted a hand to her chest, taking a break from whatever he was doing behind her, to raise the silk shell off her breasts. Then his mouth latched onto one of her distended nipples and started sucking.

She squealed anew, incited by this diversity of pleasure.

Then, as if that weren't enough, she felt something nestling between butt cheeks, almost like finger but cooler and smoother. It pushed up against her backdoor. 

She gasped. He sucked her nipple harder while his lower hand pushed. 

An inch of something penetrated her butt.

"AHNnn-NN!" she wept, shaking her head so that her earrings and disordered hair swung.

Still the bullet buzzed her clit, her own fingers unmoved by her anxious dismay. 

His mouth came off her nipple with a pop and he beheld her open face.

"Just relax Tiffany, and keep that vibe on your clit like a good girl."

Both his hands were behind her butt again, clutching the narrow butt-plug he'd covered in lube.

He pressed it higher, incrementally widening her anus.

Her head tipped rearward and her young spine arched, lifting her breasts toward him. Still the bullet remained in place, held by obedient fingers.

Carefully he adjusted a knurled dial on the insert in the butt-plug's narrow stem, rotating it until the vibrator inside came alive.

Tiffany fairly exploded, snapping forward so hard she almost head-butted him. Her buttocks, hands, feet and face all clenched at once, then a guttering sob burst from her mouth and she buried her head against his shoulder.

"Surprise," he whispered.

She heaved-in a wet breath and then began to bounce and shiver, moaning against his collar. 

"That's in your ASS, Sweetheart. And you're loving it."

This goading only worsened her condition. She was non-verbal, awash in pleasure, having gone from never having experienced a vibrator to being caught between two at once. Her vulva conveyed pure liquid joy.

He inched the little plug in, deepening its vibrations. Her hands were sliding all around her mound, unable to keep the silver bullet in place. It really didn't matter anymore though; everything felt too good to be evil and too intense to resist. All she had to do was hang on.

The rubber plug slowly widened it climbed, turning her every breath into a moan. 

She was bouncing rhythmically against him now, evincing her body's native impulse to fuck. Combinations of pleasure heretofore unknown stripped the last remnants of shame away, leaving her primal hunger exposed.

She bit his collar, then turned to his neck and sucked, desperate to satisfy all her cravings at once. He brought a hand up behind her head, grabbed her hair firmly and relocated her lips to his own.

They Frenched through her moaning, tongues to the hilt, right up until the moment he shoved the toy home. 

That made her scream.

She dropped the silver bullet, reaching back instead to search for the plug. He held her tightly, pulling her head by the hair, and covered the toy's rubber base with his fingers.

"Fuck no!" she cried toward the ceiling, clawing at his hand. 

He kept the base steady, letting the toy buzz in her rectum.

"Shhh..." he soothed her. "Just leave it."

"No I can't, I can't, I can't... oh God!"

"Yes, you must. This is your training."

"No, please! Please take it out!"

"Not yet."

"Please! It's so fucking big!"

"No, it's not, T'. It's a wisp of a thing. You're just way too tight. You need to calm down; relax."

"Please..." her voice softened to a whimper. "Please."

"This is your punishment. You will wear it all morning."

"Oh, God no. No way."

"Yes. And if I catch you taking it out, you'll get a spanking and then a bigger one."

"Ah—a bigger what?"

"A bigger one of these," he emphasized, tugging the neck of the toy outward against the vice-like grip of her ass. 

"Fuuuck!" she wheezed. "Don't do that! It's killing me!"

"Such a dramatic little minx; you know that?"

"But it's ON, sir! You can't expect me to work like this."

"Well, I suppose that'll teach you to pay more attention to detail, won't it?"

"Oh God, sir... please take it out. I can't... I can't meet people... out in the lobby. Not while it's in me. Fuuuucking ay... at least turn it off!"

He brushed her hands away and let go of the plug, telling her to leave it alone and not swear so much. Then he pushed her up onto her feet.

Once she was vertical above her tall shoes he hoisted himself from the floor as well. 

He checked her plug once, just to make sure it was still firmly planted. Her tiny asshole was cinched so tight around its neck that nothing could have dislodged it without significant pain.

Then he instructed her to get dressed. 

He walked, smiling, back to his swivel chair and sat down. The left-hand bottom drawer was still open.

"Your skirt," he added calmly. "Will conceal the base of the plug and you'll be fine. I'll let Mitchell know we decided to forego your spanking in exchange for this."

"But—"

"Hurry please. The doors open in just a few minutes."

Tiffany squatted carefully to retrieve her underwear and suede skirt from the rug. She stepped into her g-string and then slowly straightened, raising it up onto her hips before wrapping the miniskirt around her waist. Lastly she collected her grey headband from among the pillows and used it smooth back her hair.

"I should go clean up, sir," she said, facing him, traumatized. "I'm sure I look ridiculous."

"You look adorable," he answered honestly. "But sure, that's a good idea. Before you leave would you mind cleaning up the rest of those toys off the floor?"

She looked at the colorful pile and empty Ziploc bags beside his desk. Without hesitation she stooped over and cleaned it all up, sealing both bags snugly before handing them over.

"Thank you," he smiled.

SCENE SIXTEEN

A few minutes later Tiffany was perched atop her tall stool in the lobby, alone. The front door was unlocked and the message indicator on her headset was blinking. The daily scheduling calendar looked moderately busy. She glanced outside through the glass entryway and saw two cars turning into the parking lot.

"Mother of Christ," she whispered under her breath, "How am I gonna do this?"

At least Doctor Mitchell had let her wear her sweater again, abiding by his rule that she be allowed one item of business-appropriate clothing while in front of the patients. Her skirt was still far too short for comfort however, especially considering the rubber toy still quietly blurring the interior of her rectum.

She put on her headset and dialed into the voicemail system to retrieve the new messages.

Beneath her short skirt the vibrator ran continuously. She tried crossing and uncrossing her legs to ease its intensity while somehow managing to transcribe the voice messages into her touchscreen. It wasn't easy.

When she hung-up, the front door squeaked and the day's first two patients wandered in. She climbed down off her stool very carefully to greet them, trying to keep her voice from betraying her breathless state. The butt plug was giving her chills.

She had to fetch milk for one of the visitors' coffee, and remembered to squat to access the low mini-fridge, rather than bend over, as she knew her brief skirt and ribbon-thin panties were useless in terms of coverage. The plug's stubby base would be obvious if she bent from the hips.

Especially in such tall shoes.

The morning's remaining hours unfolded in an incessant haze of arousal and discomfiture. She did her best to mask what was happening to her but the clear Plexiglas podium offered little concealment and Grisholm's device played an unmerciful game.

Despite her buttoned-up sweater she had to keep her elbows tucked-in due to the immodesty of her nipples. Every patient stared at her. She was in no doubt that this was her life's most embarrassing day.

The older male patients in particular were agog at her condition. The flush across her cheeks was obvious and the shocking brevity of her skirt didn't help either. 

Tiffany felt as though everyone knew she was on the verge of losing control. Worse, whenever she sat down the vibrations reached deeper. Sometimes they made her unexpectedly whine, mid-sentence, or even gasp a little by accident.

Each of the doctors visited her often; ostensibly to check the schedule but often just trying to coax her into the hallway for a quick grope. 

She abandoned all hope of removing the trembling toy. It was pointless; she had no idea where to hide it if she did take it out, and felt sure the doctors would keep checking her often.

Getting caught without it would be awful. The last thing she wanted was a larger one AND a spanking. Besides, as the hours wore on, the little thing's battery waned, reducing its intensity to a survivable level.

Doctor Mitchell, for one, seemed more interested in the number of appointment-calls she was fielding. He clearly trusted the news of his sexy new receptionist would spread quickly to every young man in the county. To his mind anyway, her ongoing exhibition seemed like perfect fodder for word-of-mouth marketing.

Tiffany, on the other hand, found it difficult to focus on such commercial concerns. Her thoughts were far too colored by arousal. The fact that she'd kissed every one of her bosses earlier wasn't helping. It made her interactions with them seem overtly sexual.

By a quarter to one the lobby was empty. She was hungry, footsore, overstimulated and slightly hung-over.

Mitchell appeared at her side holding, to her delight and surprise, a frozen popsicle.

"Here," he smiled. "I made a batch this morning."

"You did?" she asked, eagerly accepting the proffered treat. "What flavor?"

"This one is vanilla but there's also a salted-caramel batch. Let me know how you like it."

"Gee, thanks!" 

She gave the whitish column a lick and then, after a short pause, grinned and said: "Not bad."

"Great. Come get another when you're done. They're protein-pops; my very own recipe. With all the good stuff in there, a few in a row can actually be a meal-replacement."

"Really?" she asked, genuinely interested. She licked the icy phallus again and then inserted it into her mouth. Her cheeks dented and she rotated the handle several times, polishing its first inch.

Ian stared, mesmerized, as she withdrew the whitish thing and swallowed. He chewed the inside of his cheek, praying she wouldn't recognize the underlying taste. 

She slurped the popsicle noisily, happy to have a healthful distraction from the buzzing inside her butt. 

When she noticed Mitchell's rapt attentiveness, a novel insight dawned on her as well. It wasn't difficult to guess his thoughts, and a certain element of her newly-freed id decided to try an experiment of sorts. In her present state it seemed like a fun idea. 

She widened her blue eyes, emoting as much innocence as she knew how, and gradually slid the popsicle deep into her mouth. Then, while staring upward at Ian, she sucked and sucked, denting her cheeks all the way and repeatedly fluttering her eyelashes. Her forehead wrinkled as if in need of his approval. 

Ian stopped blinking. 

Still playacting, she eased the cold shaft slowly out, letting her tongue emerge to drag its underside. When the tip came out she grinned openly, sloshing a pool of the melted mixture around on her tongue before swallowing and smiling again. 

Ian still hadn't blinked.

She wanted to laugh, but instead bit the popsicle and chewed it, making him flinch and look away.

He suddenly remembered to appear less fascinated, but it was too late; she already had him pegged. 

"It's tasty, sir," she said around the chewed-up mouthful. "I guess I was hungry."

He felt relieved and delighted, but also uncharacteristically self-conscious.

"Well," he fumbled, "I'd better get back to work. When you're done with that why don't you come get another, you know... so you can try the other flavor."

"Sure... and listen; I'm sorry about not reading my contract. I—"

She cut herself off as the vibrations in her ass suddenly ceased. The battery was dead.

"Wow..." she whispered, completely losing her train of thought.

"What?" Mitchell asked. "Everything alright?"

"Y—yes. It's just this... thing... I'm doing for Doctor Grisholm."

"Oh, right. How's that going?"

"Fine. It was just... really distracting, but I... I think I, actually sort of handled it." 

"Good. Well, keep sucking that. Don't let it drip."

"Okay," she smirked, glancing up at him. She briefly extended her tongue and gave the icy shaft a demure lick. 

Ian watched a moment longer, longing to see more of her tongue. He figured she had an inkling of his principal fetish, but felt confident she was oblivious to the quantity of semen she was ingesting.

When her tongue declined to play along, he forced himself to walk away. 

He wanted her little mouth on his cock acutely; but that had to wait. 

Anyway, having a headful of such anticipations is a marvelous torment.

He retreated to his office and shut the door till it clicked. Then he dropped to one knee and began opening the heavy FedEx parcel. 

His plan for Wednesday's training would make Grisholm's look like a cakewalk.

*



Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 04



Author's Note: This story will do fine as a stand-alone stroker if that's what you're after, but its real intent is to make you giggle and blush at the same time. The non-consent elements are all fairly mild. Our heroine is having more fun than we are, trust me. The humor can be subtle sometimes amongst all the blatant Eros, however. As an example: "Her bottom was alive with pleasure" (the final line of scene twenty) is entirely tongue-in-cheek. "Alive with Pleasure" was the tag-line in all those hilariously sexualized Newport cigarette ads for God's sake. I am self-aware enough to see the absurdity of writing these stories and I hope you share my instinct for mirth about them. This is supposed to be fun, after all.

In any case, this new Ch. 4 in Tiffany's tale replaces the original. A couple of passages and plot developments remain but the bulk is completely new. The parts that stayed in have been thoroughly edited.

Please don't worry if this series is new to you; I've included enough context to keep you oriented. Of course, it would be great to start at Ch.1 or at least Ch.3, but that's up to you. Click my username to find those. 

To my loyal readers: Thank you for your patience and enthusiasm, and sorry for the endless wait. I've read all your emails and comments more than once. I do hope this submission keeps 'em coming (please recognize that as a double entendre. If you do, you are in the proper mood to continue).

Enough blah-blah... Enjoy! 

*

SCENE SEVENTEEN

Tiffany Topper's second workday at the medical clinic in Rifle, Colorado was nearly over. Despite the dry summertime air she felt humid and impure.

Doctor Grisholm, who had been in charge of her discipline all day, emerged from the explorer-themed décor of his psychiatry office and strode past her perch on the lobby's reception dais to lock the front door, signaling the end of patient hours.

She crossed her legs tightly; aware that her narrow Plexiglas podium offered no privacy. Indeed when Grisholm turned to face her his gaze dipped and his smile widened.

Her entire workday had been just so.

Rules promulgated by Doctor Mitchell, her main boss, had compelled her to go braless beneath her thin cardigan and silk camisole, and to wear her favorite suede miniskirt unnaturally high by cinching its wrap-around beltline at her waist's narrowest point. This left her athletic legs naked to the hip and her boobs eye-catchingly mobile. A pair of spindly nude-color stiletto sandals further exaggerated her leggy physique, but the 'piece de resistance' belonged to Doctor Grisholm, who had coerced her into wearing a vibrating butt plug in lieu of being spanked for her failure to read her employment contract. 

Thusly attired she'd spent seven hours performing an involuntary floorshow for the clinic's visitors; pulled helter-skelter by competing requests like a kite on a gusty day.

Throughout, Grisholm's humming toy had kept her insides buttery. It transformed mere sitting into a sexual act. Greeting guests, serving coffee, answering the phone, escorting patients to examination rooms, helping the infirm to their seats, maintaining the appointment calendar and attending myriad lesser whims contrived by the four doctors had all become stimulants. Even after the battery died she'd remained subjugated by its presence; constantly worried of bending over too far or voicing her arousal. 

Not surprisingly the lobby's male population had steadily swollen as her ordeal wore on, ballooned with patients' brothers, uncles, fishing-buddies and other lingerers. This crowd had attuned their beady eyes to her every swish and bounce as though she were an Olympic skater, staying long after their appointments were over and sighing appreciatively each time she leaned, stretched or crouched. 

Now the room was finally empty and she was savoring her first moments alone; hoping her libido might cool and eating one of the ice pops Doctor Mitchell had made for her. Each contained enough protein to replace a meal, he'd said. Or was it half a meal? She couldn't remember. In any case, she'd already devoured most of it. Only a last whitish glob clung to the wooden stick between her teeth, slowly melting on her tongue.

Doctor Grisholm's burgeoning smile betrayed his awareness that each ice pop contained not just almond milk, protein powder and flavoring syrup as Doctor Mitchell had told her, but also three donations' worth of frozen semen from the clinic's reproductive therapy practice.

With a cheeky glow nearly matching Tiffany's, he approached her high stool.

"So..." he began, "Looks like you survived the day. How's my little friend been treating you?"

She dragged the stick clean between her lips and swallowed. "Um... It eventually stopped buzzing sir, so... I think I did okay after that."

"Good. Any patients notice?"

She hesitated, remembering all the looks she'd gotten and the whines of pleasure she'd had to stifle. Even now her nipples stood proud and her panties felt swampy. "I don't, um... I tried sir, but—anyway, can I take it out now? It's been like, really hard for me." 

"Sure. Why don't you hop down and we'll take care of that?"

She unscissored her legs and inched forward, treating Grisholm to a lovely view as she dangled her stilettos in search of the stool's chrome foot rail.

Earlier in the afternoon she'd rushed this technique and the plug's stem had caught the cushion's edge, causing her to squeal in a manner that raised eyebrows throughout the clinic and nearly sent her tumbling into the lap of an elderly patient. 

Grisholm savored the spectacle of her cautious dismount. Only belatedly did he offer her a hand as she negotiated the much easier step to the floor.

"Yes..." he smiled, scanning her from head to toe, "I imagine you've had quite a day."

Her bright eyes flicked to his and then away, acknowledging her blatant condition with a blush. 

"You know," he continued, "All our patients are gone, so... that sweater can come off again."

"Wh... but—" 

"No buts, come on; just like you agreed with Doctor Mitchell."

She stared at him, mute, but soon began twiddling the small buttons of her cardigan, springing them wide one by one from the waist up. By the time she reached her chest, where the knit was most strained, she'd resigned herself to a full repeat of her earlier exposure.

When the last button came free she sloughed the garment off both shoulders and let it fall to her wrists behind her. This revealed her spaghetti-strapped silk shell. Like a brief curtain it hung from the points of her boobs, wobbling buoyantly as she fought her wrists free. 

"M-hm," he approved. "Much better. You can put that on again when it's time to leave."

She sucked in a breath, glancing down at her décolletage. What little concealment remained was mooted by her rudely prominent nipples.

She silently swore and turned away to lay her sweater across the stool, wishing she hadn't agreed to such humiliating rules. 

Without further ado Grisholm towed her into the office corridor, moving briskly enough that she had to trot in her tall stilettos, biting her lip as the toy interfered with her gait and her boobs orbited riotously.

At Exam Room 3 he pulled her inside and shut the door.

"Hop up here," he said, patting the paper sanitary sheet covering the room's examination table. 

She eyed him through a disheveled sheaf of her brunette forelocks, warily tucking one foot behind the other and whispering: "You're not, um....giving me a spanking now, right?" 

"No dear."

"N'kay," she continued, reaching behind her skirt and fingering the base of the plug, which was quite secure between her round cheeks. "Then can I just like... just pull this out?"

"No, Tiffany. Come on; hop up and lay back."

"But—"

He rolled his eyes dismissively and scooped her up by the waist, effortlessly depositing her onto the padded exam table.

"Ah!" she flinched as the plug lurched deeper. "Careful sir."

"Scoot to the middle and lie down please."

She reclined onto her elbows and carefully drew her feet up, crinkling the paper sheet as she centered herself.

"Now pull your knees back and hold them," he instructed, lifting her stilettos skyward.

Her suede skirt collapsed on itself as her legs inverted, baring her suntanned ass and the blue ribbon of her G-string.

She looped one arm around her knees and tried to conceal the toy with the other hand, pleading: "I'd rather do this part."

Grisholm brushed her interference aside, saying: "Nonsense."

Her stomach filled with butterflies as he loomed over her. She rolled her face to the wall, unable to bear such exposure. 

Grisholm smiled. The slender trace of her G-string was tilted aside by the toy's protruding stem. Not content to leave her any coverage at all, he plucked this damp cord and stretched it leftward to her hip.

She squirmed; aware that he was cataloguing every aspect of shaven sex beneath the overhead lights. Being is such a jackknifed pose opened her pelvis completely, displaying her unusually large clit and allowing her nubile scent to enflame his baser instincts. 

"My, my," he murmured, "You really have been enjoying your day."

Her face went scarlet. Her jaw clenched. 

He pursed his lips and blew a stream of air at her overheated mound. 

Goosebumps sprang up all over her, especially around her areolae.

Then his cool touch alighted on her vulva. 

She jerked in surprise, shocked by the sensitivity. Even the temperature difference felt extreme.

"Oh Doctor, please I—"

His thumb penetrated her before she could finish.

She burst with a wanton cry and then slapped a hand across her mouth.

It was too late. Her interior was awash and now they both knew how close she was. 

He marveled at the way her diminutive inner labia slathered his embedded thumb with nectar, clinging to it. 

"Goodness, it's like you fell in love out there," he taunted. "You're a self-basting treasure!

"No sir!"

He applied his other hand to the smooth fold of her clitoral hood. She bit back a moan.

"Come on, 'fess up ..." he continued, "All those hours in front of strangers... plugged-up like this -- it seems to have suited you. Remember what I told you about being a passenger? How you crave this sort of thing, but only when it's forced on you?"

"Mihm-m!"

His thumb went deeper while he smeared her clit side-to-side. The petals of her pussy curled inward.

She nearly came right then, bearing-down against the pleasure.

He watched her countenance morph from shame to panicked joy. Her spindly stilettos flicked the air. 

The more extreme tantalization for him was the anal toy. Its protruding stem had been kept slick all day by her excited weeping and now her pose was lifting it toward him; silently begging for manipulation. 

"Jesus," he breathed, wondering how he'd gotten here. Her sexuality was out of all proportion to his personal experience. His erection beat like a kettle drum.

Carefully he grasped the rubber toy and gave it an outward twitch.

"Slow!" she yelped. 

He paused, savoring her torment. Then with his other hand he spread her engorged mound, making her clit rise from its hood like a rude finger. It looked as hard as a bee-sting.

"Please... please slow," she begged.

All her sensitivities were right there, pining for it. He waited as long as he dared, quavering in anticipation. Then he opened his maw and dove right in. 

A wail erupted from her, obscene in pitch, and she immediately grabbed the back of his head. 

He slurped her oversized clit eagerly, licking it up and down, squashing her entrance with his stubbly chin.

She cooed and grimaced, bucking her pelvis. 

He tightened his grip on the rubber stem. 

She slapped the mat and chanted nonsense. 

He kept nodding while making the knot of her anus slowly bulge. 

She hugged her knees, tightening her jackknife and pointing her feet as her whines blurred to one long moan. 

The toy crept outward, distending her smallest orifice at the rate of his choosing. When it reached its fattest point a levee broke somewhere inside her, unleashing the day's pent pleasure. 

She hooked three fingers into her mouth and pried downward, howling through a tangle of hair.

"Yessh," he hissed, muffled by her sex. 

Her lungs emptied, her toes curled and her suntan shivered. 

He let go. 

The plug shot back inside.

She came in a spasm of joy, unable to quell the whorishness.

Still nursing her clit he drew the tapered toy partway out again, pumping it, exaggerating its demands, testing the elasticity of her seal. 

Her climax bloomed. Pelvic thrusts and sobs conveyed her undivided pleasure. Fluttering contractions danced through her interior. 

A dozen heartbeats later she was still rapt, delirious and dribbling all over. 

When at last she'd had enough she attempted to cover her butt.

He pressed the plug inward and held it. 

"Oh fuck... Oh God," she begged. "Please, I just... I... Holy shit."

It was an endorphin overdose.

He lifted his face from her sex and waited, slowly drawing the toy back out to its widest point. 

She gave a shaky plea: "No I can't take it, I can't take it."

He let go. All her orifices winced at once, sucking the toy back in. 

"Nyah!" she cried. "Please!"

"God that's perfect. It doesn't want to let go."

"Shh, please take it out!"

He eased the toy free. When its tip emerged there was a subtle gasp of suction before her anus disappeared within itself in a long-overdue contraction.

She groaned and went slack. Her stilettos stabbed the paper as she rolled to her side.

He stepped away and placed the toy in the washbasin, announcing: "I knew you'd enjoy that."

"N-nn..." she answered.

"You have a wonderfully erogenous body, my dear. It's made for things you can't even imagine."

Her skin was sheened, her pupils were dilated and her blue G-string remained stretched to one side. Her silk camisole was askew, revealing the underside of one boob.

"No... no...." she kept whispering, rubbing her forehead to restore cognitive focus. "You—you just made me... All of you... with these rules and these crazy... things."

He stood beside the sink and blotted his chin with a paper towel. Then he returned to her side and softened his expression into a conciliatory smile before saying: "We're simply bringing out the real you, Tiff."

Her blue eyes found him. They shimmered with emotion. "No. You're turning me into some... some crazy person. I can't— I... I only wanted a job." 

"That's not all you want now, is it?"

She scrunched her face and dislodged a tear. "I can't be this way."

He patted her knee. "I understand. You may wish you were different... but now you know what your real needs are, don't you?"

Her vocal chords tightened, preventing response. She looked away and smoothed her skirt down, seeking to recover some fraction of dignity.

He allowed her to rest for a minute before venturing: "I have a prescription for you."

"Hhn?"

"Something you'll need to do from now on... at least until your probationary status ends. I think you'll want to continue it afterward, but that'll be up to you."

She turned her head: "What?"

"Well... in order to continue exploring this kind of pleasure -- particularly this special kind, which obviously you have a talent for, you'll need to keep clean."

Her eyes narrowed.

"A simple home enema kit would suffice," he continued, "but I think you'll find a pump easier and more discrete."

"What?!"

He pulled a plastic jug from under the table and handed it to her. "Like this," he said. "It's saline; a mild solution with decent antiseptic properties."

The two-liter bottle was capped by a pistol-action tap and a rubber tube.

"No way," she marveled, reflexively examining it.

"From now on," he elaborated, "Each morning after your bowel movement I want you to rinse out at least twice. Three times would be better. Do it before you shower, obviously. And afterward I want you to apply a generous amount of this ointment."

He placed a squeeze tube of lubricant beside her.

She lay very still; eyes wide.

"Today," he continued, undeterred. "I'll do it for you as an example. But then I want you to become responsible for your own hygiene."

"You're out of your mind sir. I'm not—" 

"Are you ready?"

"No!"

"It'll only take a minute. Then you'll need to use the bathroom."

"No! Just no, okay?"

"You're going to love it. I know you will. And it's easy once you get the hang of it. It won't seem weird at all."

She resisted far longer than he'd guessed, but in the end his arguments prevailed. [Another win for psychiatry, I guess.] 

Scarcely a minute after acquiescing she found herself staggering to her feet, fully brimmed with room-temperature saline. She was tentative at first, especially on account of her steep shoes, but quickly straightened her clothes in preparation for a scamper to the lavatory, concerned that if she didn't hurry her entire lower half would explode.

Awkwardly, Doctors Mitchell, Adams and Jacobsen all burst in at that moment; grinning ear to ear as though they'd expected to find her and Grisholm mid-coitus. They crowded themselves into the small room, three-abreast between her and the door.

"We were wondering where you two were!" guffawed Adams.

"Keeping our girl late, eh Griz?" teased Mitchell, bouncing his eyebrows.

"Why is she holding her breath?" asked Jacobsen.

Grisholm glanced sideways at her and elided: "Uh... no reason."

She went clammy everywhere. 

"Say something," Jacobsen insisted.

"N-no reason," she chirped through a lopsided grin, one eye much bigger than the other.

This convinced no one. They all stared.

She went a florid hue, unable to process thought, just clenching her glutes tighter and tighter.

Thankfully for all present she did eventually clear this mental block and exhale, feinting one foot forward and announcing with all the composure she could muster: "I just need to use the Ladies' room, please."

The wall of men parted.

She stepped through.

Grisholm wiped his brow.

SCENE EIGHTEEN

It was dark outside by the time Tiffany hopped onto the double bed in the guestroom of her grandmother's house that night.

She opened her battered laptop and discovered several messages from friends back in Boston to answer, including a sarcastic one from Annabelle full of animated emoticons and quadruple exclamation points which nonetheless ended with a sincere question about her new job at the clinic. Tiffany deliberately made her reply blasé, confident she could assuage her best friend's curiosity with normal-sounding banter.

Normal, however, was not how she felt. For one thing her anus seemed to have acquired sentience, because another echo of Grisholm's vibrating plug buzzed through her just then, forcing a pause in her typing. 

"Jesus," she whispered, adjusting her cross-legged posture. 

It had been hours since he'd taken it out, yet somehow its ghost was still in there. 

Her principal concern remained whether to continue. Going back would involve more libidinous games and humiliations, certainly, but now she truly craved them. She wanted to feel that sweet build-up of tension again; the stripping away, bit by bit, of her volition and poise in the service of some naughty voyage -- to become a passenger, as Grisholm had labelled her, chauffeured from one erotic destination to the next, each surpassing the last.

Who in their right mind would re-bottle that genie?

'Besides,' she assured herself, 'I can always quit later.'

Refocusing on her laptop she completed her replies and then found Clause 17 of her employment contract; the part Doctor Mitchell said obligated her to abide his crazy discipline rules. 




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 04



The language was not nearly as veiled as she'd imagined:

"17 -- Employee hereby consents, during the Probationary Period, to the administration of disciplinary acts as deemed appropriate by the Partner(s) for the furtherance of Employee's training and/or the remediation of Employee's errors. Disciplinary acts may include, for example and without limitation: dress-code modification, loss of phone and/or internet privileges, temporary restraint, corporal punishment by hand or device leaving no mark persistent beyond four hours, demotion, reduction in work and/or termination of employment."

There it was, spelled out in black and white as if actually legal. She supposed Mitchell had written the extra language just for her. The idea that after just one interview he had guessed she'd accept such terms made her anxious.

Was it really so obvious? How many people in her past, she wondered, had recognized her closeted desires and said nothing? Dozens? Hundreds? 

She strove through memories of her interactions with authority figures: professors, cops, doctors, managers -- searching for missed cues. Had they all seen what Mitchell did? 

Re-reading the paragraph she experienced a guilty twinge of arousal. It illuminated a sexual fabric within her vastly more complex than she'd previously acknowledged.

Shame and delight were conjoined within her; that much was clear. But the crush she'd originally had on Adams now felt subsumed within a broader urge to give-in; to grant each doctor his disparate wish. 

"Why am I wired this way?" she complained aloud, raking her hands through her dark hair. She shut her eyes and tried to rationalize it all.

At least there was the bit about no lasting marks. She conflated that with Mitchell's promise of, as he put it, "no intercourse unless she begged for it," into a scrim of security; a willful hope that this whole charade couldn't get too out of control -- not to the point of any permanent harm anyway. 

She leaned back into the pillows and allowed her brain to play with this new lens, fantasizing about what Wednesday might bring. With Mitchell, a handsome doctor twice her age, in charge of her discipline and those tiny white shorts to wear she was certain another spanking awaited her. The idea of bending over for him, panties down, gave her chills. 

She imagined how each smack would surprise and arouse her. By the end she would melt into a sexual plaything. What would he do to her then?

Brushing aside her laptop she touched beneath her skirt, gauging her appetite for deviance. Other fingers arrived at her chest, plucking a nipple through her thin sweater. 

Her brows furrowed and a brief mew escaped her as she recalled how demanding Mitchell could be; how early that morning he'd shortened her skirt and touched her everywhere with such assurance, how his erection had bulged while she sat on his lap, how he'd kissed her and then made her kiss the other three doctors too. 

She squeezed and swirled her fingers, pining like an addict.

Minutes later she was still striving to engross herself but her libido had apparently decided that fantasy was no longer enough. It needed the real thing. 

That's when her IUD occurred to her, suggesting that actual intercourse might be okay too. 

The idea stopped her cold.

Conscience at last voiced its outrage: Who did she think she was? How, after everything her parents had done to properly raise and educate her, could she debauch herself into this pleasure-addled strumpet? Hadn't they sent her all the way to Grandma's house for a corrective period of self-improvement? Shouldn't she be conducting herself as a strong, independent Millennial; firmly entitled to the modern, post-feminist paradigm everyone else seemed to share? Wasn't this job eviscerating her inherited dignity, perhaps permanently? And for what? So her bosses could resuscitate their lame adolescent fantasies and she could enjoy a few orgasms?

"Fuck," she exhaled, smoothing her clothes back into place. "Quit already!" 

Pained by doubt, she rose to her feet and crept down the hallway. 

The incandescent bulb above the mirror in her grandmother's spare bathroom afforded a stark reflection to consider as she washed her face and brushed her teeth. When she returned to her bedroom she extinguished every lamp before changing into a sleep-shirt. 

Once beneath the comforter she laid her head on a pillow and curled to one side.

Sleep's mercy arrived none too soon, slackening the rack of her moral introspection. 

SCENE NINETEEN

Tiffany rose from bed early, unable to wait for her alarm. Sleep had ameliorated her angst, leaving behind only youthful eagerness for the adventures to come. 

She tiptoed to the guest bathroom carrying the supplies Doctor Grisholm had given her and began the prescribed ablution ritual. Over the course of fifteen minutes she managed three repetitions.

Then she took a hot shower and shaved her legs from ankle to hip, carefully re-shaving between them as well. The smudge of brunette pubic hair she'd left behind on Sunday she made even smaller, reducing the odds of it peeking above the ultra-low jean shorts she had to wear.

Once dry she applied lotion to her skin and then squirted a long line of Grisholm's honey-toned ointment onto her index finger. Carefully she worked it into her ass. As it warmed its viscosity thinned to a nearly frictionless film, spreading a delightful tingle and somewhat minty coolness throughout the muscular ring of her anus. 

"Wow," she breathed. 

She studied the tube but the labelling was all in French.

With a guilty look she applied another dose to her finger and pushed it deeper, twisting to distribute the medicine evenly. To describe her physical reaction to this as positive would be an understatement of galactic proportion. The tingling bloomed tenfold, making her cough. She bit her lip and dipped at the knees. Every movement seemed to activate more pleasure.

The tube fell from her hand. 

"Jesus!" she worried.

Somehow she resisted the urge to masturbate, certain that whatever the doctors had in store for her would be more electrifying than a quick rub-out in the bathroom.

She washed her hands and hid all the supplies. Then she donned a towel and scampered back to her room.

She skipped breakfast altogether; too nervous to eat and too aware that the white shorts offered no room for bloating. In fact they were so tight that she knew better than to bike to work in them.

She stepped into her lowest-rise thong panties, which happened to be white, and some calf-length raspberry yoga tights. After forcing her torso into Grisholm's chosen extra-extra-small racerback tank top she buckled-on his other gift: the embroidered choker necklace.

As far as shoes were concerned she figured that since it was a day without patients she was allowed to be casual. Between her comfy canvas Vans and a pair of cork wedges she chose the latter because they made her three inches taller and showed-off her feet. Doctor Jacobsen would appreciate that, she mused as she folded the white shorts into a square and tucked them into her purse. 

She zipped-on a grey hoodie over her tank top and bid her grandmother goodbye as innocently as possible. 

It all seemed to be going fine until halfway to work, when her bike's front tire went flat.

She didn't crash, luckily, but coasted to a halt on a lonely stretch of blacktop and dismounted. She found a spare inner tube in a pouch under the bike's seat but no pump with which to inflate it.

"Shoot," she said as she stood on the edge of the road. The sun was climbing above the Eastern mountains and the birds were quieting down. She was going to be late, which meant a spanking for sure.

She made an attempt the ride on the flat but immediately recognized she was risking damage to the rim in exchange for little progress.

She moved to the gravel shoulder and pulled out her phone, trying to decide which way to walk and who to call.

After five minutes of pushing her bike toward the clinic she heard a vehicle approaching from behind. She turned and held up a hand. 

It slowed. 

It was one of those ubiquitous full-size diesel pickups she'd seen so often since moving to Colorado. This one happened to be completely murdered-out with black trim, limo tint, bull bars and an aftermarket lift kit. It had huge, hulking tires.

"Hey!" a young man shouted down from the passenger window as the truck rumbled to a stop beside her. His pale arm was hooked over the door and a backward cap and wrap-around sunglasses hid most of his face.

Tiffany squinted up at him, unable to see the driver or anyone else inside.

"Hey!" he repeated, nearly shouting to be heard above the clattering diesel and its whistling wastegate. "You smoke?"

"What? No." she answered, shaking her head in confusion.

"Now you do!" the boy yelled as the driver floored the accelerator to a chorus of hooting laughter. Thick black exhaust belched from the truck as it roared away, completely enveloping her.

Instinctively she let go of her bike and ran, eyes and mouth closed, straight across the road to where the air was still clean.

"Fucking assholes!" she swore, thankful there had been no oncoming traffic to kill her. A billowing trail of diesel soot stretched behind the truck as it disappeared over a blind rise a quarter-mile farther on.

She looked down at her clothes and swore again while trying to dust off, thankful that she hadn't inhaled.

It wasn't long before she heard the approach of another car, this time from beyond the rise where the truck had disappeared.

A pop echoed off the canyon walls as the driver changed gear at redline, covering ground at a felonious rate. 

She took a big step back when a narrow car burst over the rise at full droop, nearly airborne. It landed with a plastic scuff, speed undiminished. 

She didn't know whether to clap or scream, but within seconds the choice was moot. The compact wagon decelerated smoothly with its hazard lights blinking.

Tiffany glared at the windshield, skeptical of the angular lattice within. She noticed the windows were down and the young driver was grinning broadly. 

He stopped alongside her. The car's brakes ticked audibly with heat and its stance was so aggressive that the tires barely fit within their fenders. Its idle sounded offbeat and punchy, like two boxers sharing a speed bag.

The driver leaned across the Spartan interior and asked: "You a'right?"

She stooped to peer inside, eyeing him suspiciously. 

He just stared back, grin wide and eyebrows arched in friendly curiosity. Then he checked his mirrors for traffic and offered: "Hope I didn't scare ya'. It's dead out here normally so I just do my thing. You stuck?"

"Yeah," she answered, still undecided as to his merits. "Flat tire."

He looked around. "Where's your ride? D'you wreck it?"

"My bike," she said, pointing to where it lay on the opposite shoulder. "I don't have a pump."

"Oh. Uh-huh... Gotcha. Well... I can give you a hand f'you want. I just gotta be at work by eight."

She straightened and considered this for a moment, scanning the roadway in both directions. There were no other cars. 

When she looked back inside he was staring at her raspberry tights. 

"Are you safe?" she asked.

He quietly smirked and wobbled his head before answering: "'Course not. I'm the only black dude in fifty miles and I'm chattin'-up a pretty white girl. Pretty sure my ass'll be all over the radio in five."

Tiffany grinned; pleased by the way he had flipped her question around. She decided his face looked honest, about her age, and for some reason the way his teeth contrasted with his chocolate skin put her mind her at ease. He seemed, reckless driving aside, harmless.

"You don't mind?" she asked.

"Nah-uh. Lemme just get off the road."

The little four-cylinder chuntered and fizzed as he feathered the clutch and crept onto the gravel shoulder.

Engine still idling, he set the handbrake and swung his door wide, then emerged in a limber sequences of moves; head and shoulders ducking out first, facing the car, then biceps curling to lift his narrow butt onto the door-bar of what she recognized was a full rollcage. Finally he extracted one leg at a time until he was standing.

His egress had taken only seconds but Tiffany found it funny, like a game of twister played backward.

She laughed as they squared off. 

"What?" he asked. "It's a rally car, okay?"

"A what?"

He glanced back at the Subaru and put both fists in his jeans' pockets. Then he shook his head and faced her again, extending his right hand. 

"I'm Cartwright."

"Tiffany," she answered. 

Their palms gripped above the roadway, identically warm in the lingering ambient chill.

"Can see that," he nodded, glancing at her neck. 

She'd forgotten how the choker advertised her name. The moment turned the corners of her mouth up. 

Cartwright loped across the road. Soon he had her crippled bike leaning against the rear of his car. He produced a small box of tools and began spinning two wrenches to remove the front wheel. 

As he worked Tiffany admonished herself to not stare. Still, she couldn't help noticing his battered hands. They had bits of tape here and there and a plethora of scars. But he got the wheel off seemingly without effort and soon had the replacement tube tucked in. Then he wrapped the nested rubber around the wheel.

She saw how his fitted t-shirt suggested a six-pack that had nothing to do with beer. This prompted her to think of her own appearance and dust off again.

When he extracted a portable air tank from under a net in his wagon's rear hatch and began to inflate the tire with it, she ventured: "D'you always travel so prepared?"

"Um... no, not really," he answered, glancing back. "You just got lucky. I do rallycross and wheeling. We run different pressures depending on the surface, so... re-filling a bunch of tires at the end of the day goes quicker this way."

"Huh," she nodded, checking the time on her phone. 

It was already seven forty. Her anxiousness about being late crowded-out her curiosity.

"There," he announced shortly. "That ought'a work."

She stepped closer and gave the bike a testing bounce. "Awesome. Thanks!"

"No worries," he shrugged, packing up his tools. "Say, um... where you goin' anyway? Not too many people ride bikes out here."

"Yeah, I know. This thing is my grandma's. She doesn't have a car anymore and mine's in Boston, so... this is how I get to work."

"You from Boston?"

"Yeah."

"That's cool. Where's work?"

"Um... this little medical clinic. The one up at the top of the hill."

"Uh-huh. You wanna ride?"

"Um, no it's okay. I mean, thanks, but—"

"I don't mind," he added, checking his watch.

"I've already slowed you way down. But thanks... for helping and everything."

"You sure?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well alright. Ride safe I guess."

A look connected them before he stuck out his hand.

"Nice meeting you," they both said simultaneously.

"Yeah," he laughed, bobbing her hand. "I guess I'll see you. It's a small town, right?"

"Totally."

"I work at Mick's out on Railroad Avenue... custom trucks and stuff like that."

"N'kay."

He turned and stooped to secure the air tank under its elastic webbing again.

Tiffany adjusted her purse across her body and swung one thigh over the bike's saddle. Then she announced: "I'm gonna be late, so..." 

"You sure you don't want a ride?" he asked again, turning around. "I could run you up there in, like, two minutes dead; maybe less."

She squinted above a grin, "That's what worries me; the dead part."

He spread his hands and said: "Hey, when I go pro you'll wish you'd come along."

"Uh-huh."

"Seriously. I'll drive slow."

She sighed, glancing up the long empty road.

"Las' chance," he added.

She studied his face once more, attempting to read his thoughts. Then she nodded, "Okay, sure. That'd be great."

SCENE TWENTY

The lobby's clock indicated seven-fifty-five when Tiffany emerged from the lavatory in her prescribed outfit. It had taken seemingly forever to wash off all the diesel soot and exchange her comfy leggings for the miniature shorts. 

Cartwright had asked for her number though, so that was fun. 

Her outfit seemed doubly inappropriate now that she was in an office setting. The black tank top bared her midriff to her ribs and the shorts were positively pornographic. Their stretchy fabric contained more spandex than denim and they had no inseam at all; just a pair of one-inch cuffs that crept upward in back to display her ass. The whole ensemble left very little to the imagination.

She cringed at how the doctors would judge her. Adams' old Land Cruiser hadn't been in the parking lot when Cartwright had dropped her off, but Mitchell, Grisholm and Jacobsen's cars all were. 

With a resigned sigh she clomped across the lobby in her cork wedges, consoling herself that at least her excuse for being late was valid. The tank top wobbled as she walked, offering her youthfully outthrust breasts little in the way of support. Perhaps they would take pity on her, she mused, or be too distracted by her outfit to care. 

As soon as she reached the first doorway, Doctor Grisholm called out: "There you are!"

"Oh, um... hi," she answered, halting mid-stride.

"Come here for a second. Let me see you."

She hesitated, anxious to check-in with Doctor Mitchell before her tardiness grew, but Grisholm rose from his desk and approached, beckoning her into his office.

"Good morning sir," she said with a nervous wave, "But, um... is this urgent? 'Cause I should probably—"

"My Goodness," he enthused while pulling her across the threshold, "You look delicious!"

"Thanks but I—" 

He twirled her as though they were dancing, muttering: "Un-be-lievable."

"I, um... Thanks, but I really need to check-in with Doctor Mitchell before—"

Her words faltered as she noticed his face, which was normally so unreadable, go through several iterations of wonder. His gaze licked her like a tongue; she could nearly feel it. Memories of their prior assignations flashed back, swelling her capillaries.

He put her through another slow turn before finally regaining some composure.

"Fine, yes fine," he smiled politely. "Run along and check-in... but first one question."

"Um'kay."

"D'you do your cleanse this morning?"

She glanced sideways and subtly mumbled, "M-hm." 

"Three times?"

She nodded.

"Good. And plenty of ointment afterward?"

"I, um... I really need to check-in with Doctor Mitchell, sir." 

He slid one arm around her waist.

She tried to twist away but his other arm caught her, immediately snugging her close. Then he lifted, dragging her up onto the curve of his belly.

"Sirrrr!" she whined as her feet cleared the carpet and the shorts dug in, becoming almost painful. 

He nestled both hands under her ass and bounced her upward, forcing her legs astride his stout girth. 

"What are you doing?" she complained, clinging to him like monkey on a tree. 

"Take it easy," he assured, balancing for them both. "I just want to check that you've used enough ointment."

"What?!? No!" 

His fingers ventured under the seat of her shorts until one touched the knot of her anus. Her blue eyes shot wide and she tried to squirm higher, losing both sandals in the process. 

He began easing a stubby forefinger into the silken grip of her ass. The collar of muscle guarding her rectum flared and pinched.

She winced, tingling with sensitivity. 

"Lovely," he whispered.

She was appalled by how erotic this felt, gritting her teeth and trying not to make noise. She could feel her panties digging in on account of her splay-legged hug. 

He eased his digit deeper and her anus latched onto it. She begged him to stop.




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 04



"Perfect," he enthused. 

"Ow," she lied, but the undertone of her pleasure was clear.

"Close your eyes and relax," he said. "Enjoy it."

"No. Lemme go." He drew his finger partway out and then pushed in again.

The ointment's reactivity bloomed. She gave a long whine as her panties began to saturate in response.

"You like being naughty, don't you?"

"Noh."

"Don't worry. You're still a good girl."

She hugged him tighter, unable to respond.

He pumped his digit carefully in and out. Her mouth fell open above his shoulder. There was no way this was supposed to feel so good. 

"Isn't that's nice?" he goaded. "Ready for two fingers?"

"No!"

"Or better yet, imagine my cock. How would that feel?"

"God!" she gasped, pinching again. 

"I think you'd love it."

Her nipples went stiff. This was too intense by far. 

"Want to try?" he offered, ever-hopeful.

"No, my God, please stop."

Despite her efforts this answer came out girlish and horny. She was exhaling in soft little whines. The thought of what anal sex might do to her in this condition was worrisome. Her anus was so excited it was practically massaging his finger. Whatever ingredients were in that ointment made movement feel incredible.

Grisholm had been fantasizing about her all night. There was no question in his mind that she embodied every one of his fantasies. Her contractions around his finger only made him hunger more. His erection bloomed, straining his pants. He widened his stance and groaned as his self-control wavered.

She tightened her hug. Warm ointment wetted his finger. 

"Once before I die," he whispered. "That's all I ask."

"No! I've never even tried before!"

"I'll make sure you enjoy it."

She gave no audible answer to this, only puckered tighter.

"God," he breathed. "You're incredible." 

"Please lemme go. I'm so late."

He eased his finger out and allowed her legs to drop, snuffing his urge. He knew patience was his only chance.

As soon as her feet touched the floor she stepped back and grabbed her bottom. Her eyes darted nervously about.

"Listen," he instructed her. "Run along and see Mitchell. But keep in mind what I said. You're practically made for this, okay?"

She looked up.

"That's right," he affirmed. "There's a whole world inside you just waiting to be discovered."

She clambered into her wedges and scurried toward the door. 

He was still staring at her butt when she pranced over the threshold. 

An anxious grin hijacked her face en-route to the next office. Her bottom was alive with pleasure.

SCENE TWENTY-ONE

Doctor Ian Mitchell's door was halfway open. He was seated in his high-backed leather desk chair, swiveled toward the window. 

"Good morning sir!" she sang, not realizing he was on the phone. 

He spun and checked his watch. Then he gestured for her to shut the door and approach.

She did so immediately; anticipating his biding by standing right in front of him with her hands gathered behind her. 

He made no effort to greet her; just let his eyes wander.

She tried to tug her shorts down but they barely moved. A petite camel-toe remained in front and the rear cuffs were halfway up her ass.

Ian wore a pressed dress shirt, dark slacks and polished shoes. 

"No," he continued curtly into the phone, "I'm not going to resubmit it with your new diagnosis codes. The ones I used were valid. It's time you guys quit stalling and reimburse my practice or so help me God I'll complain to every regulator you've ever heard of and a couple more besides. I'm sick of this run-around!"

Tiffany shifted in her sandals, feeling wildly horny. She noticed her nipples tenting the ribbed cotton of her top.

"I don't care what your system says," Ian continued, eyeing her up and down. "No. I've already talked to your TPA. They sent me to you. No, you will not transfer me back there. You're the carrier! You have to authorize payment, it's that simple. This is for work I performed four months ago, understand? Yeah...? No, you listen, I didn't spend a third of my life memorizing every possible human ailment just to be told that I need to learn your ever-changing codes as well! I've got two more you need clear after this one, too. Uh-huh. I know... you decline everything; decline, decline, decline. I'm sure that's all your bosses want, but it's a scam. You are obstructing valid medical insurance claims, and that's illegal. That's called fraud, okay? Yes, I know we're on a recorded line. Yes. Yes, I would very much prefer to speak with your supervisor."

He made a twirling gesture with one finger.

She opened her mouth to say something but didn't. A brief hesitation later, she turned around. When she glanced over her shoulder his eyes were already on her ass.

'Jesus,' she thought, rolling one ankle outward and clinging to a lungful of air, praying he wouldn't discover how wet she was.

The expectation of his touch toyed with her, becoming a certainty. She stared at the ceiling, wishing her clothes were less provocative.

No matter how conflicted she felt about this job, these moments of anticipation were undeniably affecting. Just standing there listening to his voice, each incremental rise in his frustration made her muscles tighten. She shifted her weight and crossed her legs, trying to distract herself by studying the art on the walls. It was to no avail however. Her pulse remained firm. She could feel it in every erogenous zone. She tried to tug the shorts down again but their central seam and lowermost button seemed stuck in the worst place; right against her clit.

For Mitchell, watching her fidget was therapeutic. Absent her presence he would have been yelling and banging the receiver on his desk.

Conversely, her mental state began to deteriorate. She started doubting her attractiveness, imagining her butt looked too big and perhaps showed some dimpling too. Restraining the urge to hunt for these phantom flaws, she crossed her arms and switched her weight back to the other foot, tucking one leg tightly behind the other.

She soon found herself actually wanting his touch; as an affirmation of her attractiveness if nothing else. This rattled her even more. It was a paradigm she was unready for. 

When Mitchell finally secured some vague promise from the insurance company, he hung up.

She spun around, radiating discomfiture.

"You're late," he announced. "Why didn't you call?"

"I tried sir but the main number went to voicemail and that's the only one in my phone," she blurted in a rush.

"Really."

"Yes I... I got a flat tire on my bike. Otherwise I'd have been here on time."

"Don't you think you ought to have everyone's cell number and office extension in your phone by now?"

"Yes. I'll fix that today, sir. I'm sorry."

"You're half an hour late. And don't tell me you walked here dressed like that."

"No. I changed in the washroom and, um, I got a ride."

"A ride? From whom?"

"Just this guy who stopped."

"Really?"

"Yeah—I mean yes, sir. He was really nice."

"I'm sure he was. Where's your bike?"

"Outside."

"And it's got a flat?"

"No. He fixed it."

Ian raised his eyebrows and leaned back, lacing all ten fingers behind his head. "So... let me get this straight: You got a flat tire, some random dude pulled over, fixed it and gave you a lift to work?"

"Yes sir. See—"

"All within half an hour? Baloney. You overslept, didn't you? You just made all this up."

"What? No, I didn't. Honest, sir, you could ask him. He works at a repair shop on Railroad Street."

"It's Railroad Avenue, and there're four or five shops like that over there."

"I'm not lying! He... he said his name is Cartwright and the shop is like, Mick's or Mack's or something." 

Ian harrumphed.

She twisted her wrist in one hand, regretting divulging so much about Cartwright. It seemed like a dumb move. 

His silence only compounded her stress. She adopted a sulk, rubbing her bare knees together and toying with one of the belt loops on her shorts.

"You don't believe me," she pouted. "But it's really what happened."

"I want to believe you," he answered, "...because I like you."

She alternated her gaze between his left and right shoe, still pouting.

"I just hope you thanked him properly."

"I did!"

"Honestly the thing I don't believe is that ridiculous outfit you're wearing. Did Grisholm really buy you that?"

"Yes sir."

"It makes you look like a spoiled brat."

"I know and it's really uncomfortable. But he said I had to wear it 'cause there're no patients today."

"Turn around," he ordered, sitting up.

She nearly tangled her feet. Butterflies swirled in her stomach.

His touch arrived all at once, just as she'd imagined.

"What size are these things?" he wondered incredulously.

"Um.... Extra-Extra-Small, sir."

"And you normally wear...?" 

"Small... sir."

He adjusted her position manually to behold a three-quarter view of her butt, prying more of her soft flesh out from under the cuffs until her cheeks fairly bulged.

"Yes," he commented salaciously. "These are very tight. You must be quite uncomfortable."

"I tried to tell him, sir, but—"

"But it's not your choice anymore, is it?" 

She sucked in a breath and said: "No, sir... I know, but please let me—" 

"They do show off your assets." 

"They're way too—"

"By which I mean your ass, Tiffany."

"Nn-mm."

"That's what Grisholm likes, you know; this round little rump of yours."

She looked back just as he delivered a cross-wise swat, animating both cheeks.

"Ah!" she jumped.

"Deplorable. Not at all in good taste."

"No sir. I, um...I can change into something else if you'd prefer."

"Really?" he enthused, making eye contact with her for the first time in a minute. "You brought alternative outfits? How prescient!"

"Well, just some leggings and a sweatshirt."

He stilled, nonplussed. "Is that supposed to be funny? Is this a game to you?"

She bit her cheek and looked away.

"Grisholm has been waiting since Monday to see you in this," he continued. "I'm not going to deprive him of that for a lousy sweatshirt!"

"No Doctor Mitchell, I didn't mean—"

"Are you sure you're in the correct frame of mind for this job today?"

"Yes sir," she answered, glancing at the ceiling.

"It doesn't seem like it. I would suggest a bit more deference. Otherwise you may attract the wrong sort of attention."

"No sir, I didn't mean—" 

"Don't tell me what you didn't mean. I heard your tone clearly."

"Ung'kay. Sorry."

"And less smirking would help too, unless you want me to extend your probationary status indefinitely."

She bit her lip this time. She didn't dare look back. 

"Now," he continued. "Tell me again the name of this fellow?

She delayed a few seconds, praying she wouldn't giggle. "Um... Cartwright, sir."

"And how exactly did you thank him?"

"Well I... I, um, just said thanks."

"Orally?"

"What?"

"With words; by mouth. Nothing else?"

"No sir, nothing else." 

"He didn't ask you to return the favor?"

"No."

"Did you get his address so you could mail him a thank-you card? Or a gift?"

"Wh—? No."

"Why not?"

"That would be w—"

"Is he unattractive? Is that why you're so reticent?"

"No, he's..."

"Then what kind of person are you? An act of chivalry saves you from danger and inconvenience and gets nothing but a simple 'thank you'? That's it?"

"Yeah, that's like, normal sir."

"I emphatically disagree."

"Well..."

"Shall I try to locate this gentleman to thank him for you?"

"No! My God that would be so—" 

"How will you clear your conscience?"

"I don't—" 

"Goodwill ought to be reciprocated."

"He's fine."

"He's fine? You still aren't listening, are you? Maybe we should both go see him; so I can watch you thank him in person."

She blanched this time, imagining how embarrassing that would be. It muted any lingering risk of laughter.

"How else will I be sure you've done it?" he continued.

"Please don't; I'll thank him when he calls."

"He shouldn't have to call. You should call him. It's about respect. And besides, going down there might be a marketing opportunity. I'll look into it."

"No, you're insane!" she announced without thinking. 

"Excuse me?"

"Uh..."

"That caps it," he growled, grabbing her by the wrist. "I'll not sit here and be mocked by a twenty-two year old."

"Kidding!"

Before she could react he flopped her face-down across his lap, muttering: "Over my knee." 

"Wait!" she squealed. 

"We're going to get to the bottom of this once and for all. Not listening... disrespectful... excuses. I don't care for any of it."

"I didn't mean it!"

He hooked his left hand around her waist and, despite her squirming, managed to get her ass centered atop his lap.

"What you need is a brisk warm-up."

"Please no!" she protested, scrabbling for traction with her feet and fingers. Blood rushed to her head and her hair hung forward.

"Keep still," he insisted, securing her with his left forearm and straightening one knee so his other became the sole high point supporting her pelvis. This crushed the shorts' buttons against her mons pubis, which she felt acutely, and canted her ass upwards before him.

"Fuck, come on sir!" she complained.

"Don't add profanity to your list of sins."

"Let me go!"

"Absolutely not. You may be accustomed to a world in which pretty girls get away with murder, but not anymore. You're about to experience some accountability."

"I didn't do anything wrong!"

"See? You never take responsibility."

"Yes I do!"

"Oh? Then tell me: How many ways did your tardiness negatively affect my clinic this morning? Hmm?" 

Her mind raced: "I, uhm... Three?"

"Wrong."

"But it wasn't my fault!"

"Again with the denials. Clearly you're overdue for this." 

"No!"

"Raise your bottom higher, up to my palm. There is a right way to do these things and we are going to adhere to it, understand?"

Her brows furrowed and she arched slightly. 

Displeased, he gripped her shorts' rear cuffs and yanked them skyward, dramatically steepening the pitch of her lower back. 

"Eek!" she complained, straight-arming the carpet and pointing her feet. 

"Like that," he affirmed, releasing her shorts.

A whimper escaped her as she struggled to balance in this new bridge-like pose. Her fingers were in the carpet and her toes were balanced on the nose of each sandal. She hardened her core to keep her butt as high as possible.

He cupped her ass gratuitously, squeezing each cheek in turn.

Keeping this position consumed a significant percentage of her athleticism. Her hands and shoulders began to burn. She lifted her head and whined: "Please hurry. This is hard."

"It's difficult, Tiffany. 'Hard' is something you'll be covering later."

She hissed through her teeth at this implication, but managed not to collapse.

He held her bare waist and continued groping as his erection inflated beneath her.

She tried to rationalize all this, conjuring various excuses and ameliorations as to why it was okay, but none of them made any sense. 

"Tomorrow," he segued, "You'll need to wear something prettier."

She didn't answer. Too many other thoughts were stampeding through her head.

Fresh goosebumps ran down her legs as he stroked her gluteal crease. The way her shorts disappeared between her cheeks was one of the greatest incitements to lasciviousness he'd ever seen. 

"A little dress perhaps?" he ventured. "Something wispy I can get my hands under?"

She dug her nails into the carpet and grunted: "Hm'kay."

"What was that? Speak up."

"Yes sir! I'll wear something prettier tomorrow."

"Don't disappoint."

"I won't sir."

Without further ado he raised his hand and delivered a crisp smack to her right butt cheek.

"HAh!" she cried, twisting unsteadily.

"Hold still please."

"But—"

The next spank interrupted her. 

"Ohh!!" 

Four more times he did this, making each side of her ass wobble in turn. Satisfying noises resounded off the walls.

It was exactly the sort of wickedness that suited her. She tried to suppress the thrill but that only made it worse. Her skin warmed and her knees dipped.

"As for today's outfit," he lectured, pausing to cup her bottom again. "We'll just have to make do as best we can, won't we?"

"Yes sir," she exhaled, slackening across his lap with a sigh of relief. 

"We're not done. Rise again."

She swore under her breath and re-tensed, elevating her ass as high as possible.

"Keep the position this time. I'm going to give you six more now, quickly, and I don't want you to move."

"Sh—Nn... M'kay," she grunted. 

He spanked her young bottom briskly, enlivening its firm swells. 

"Oh GOhh-D!" she cried, face aghast as her feet slid backward and the swatting continued. 

After the sixth spank he laid his palm across the gap where her cuffs vanished and enthused: "Very good." 

"Can we be done now?" she begged, nearly breathless. 

Her bottom was ringing. Half-exposed handprints had bloomed across it, peeking out below the shorts.

"Do you feel sufficiently reminded of your manners?"

"Yes sir."

"Will be you be selfless and attentive to others today?"

"Yes sir."

"Alright. Just four more then."

Before she could protest he landed another pair of smacks atop each cheek, deepening the blush of her skin. She kicked a foot back and squawked. Her earrings got tangled in her hair and she collapsed over his knee.

"Done," he said. "You may stand now."

She scrambled to her feet and swayed before him, furiously rubbing her bottom. Her face was a picture of appalled wonder. 

"Remember," he said, raising a finger. "You still owe my thirty on your bare bottom for being late. This was just a warm-up to get your head screwed-on straight this morning."

"Yes sir," she breathed.

"Now turn and face my desk." 

"Now?!"

He stood and abruptly hustled her to the edge of his broad wooden desk, reassuring: "I'm only going to fix your outfit, not spank you." 

She found herself relieved. But then his manhood pressed itself against her tailbone, pinning her to the furniture. Her mouth formed an 'O' and her glutes tightened, either with expectance or stress, she couldn't tell which.

He opened a drawer and retrieved some stubby scissors.

At the sight of them she squealed: "No! Not shorter!" 

Ignoring her, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and tucked the cool metal blades up under her shorts' right cuff.

"Please sir, come on!" she begged, arching and tensing as the snipping began. "They're already tiny!"

He cut a new vertical slit up through her shorts' right side, letting the stitching pull wide as the fabric's tension eased. Soon the slit was halfway to her beltline. Then he switched hands and repeated the same on the other side.

She pinched her legs together, silently chanting that somehow everything would be alright. But inside she was panicking. His cock was only millimeters away and her clothes were vanishing.

"Please," she begged, mussing his paperwork with her sprawled hands. "Please stop."

"Sure," he said, releasing her hair and calmly stepping back. "Isn't that more comfortable?"

She straightened and looked down at her flanks. 

"Oh sir... I'm... I'm almost naked."

He traced her newly-bare skin, reinforcing her sense of exposure. The denim curled back from his touch.

"See?" he said. "I didn't make them shorter."

She spun to face him. For a moment there was total silence.

Then he hooked two fingers into her top's neckline and stretched it forward, capturing the black fabric in the scissors' bite. A wide V burst open as he cut, spilling her cleavage into view.

"NO!" she cried, grabbing herself.

She crowded her hands together, smashing her breasts into a pair of kissing domes. 




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 04



Ian tossed the scissors aside and sat down. 

"Let me see," he said.

"Oh my God!" she answered. "I'm falling out! You... you ruined it." 

"There wasn't much to ruin, dear. Now remove your hands please. Let me see you."

Her brows wrinkled and her expression fought back, but slowly she let go.

The cut yawned wide in sympathy with her breasts' natural weight, exposing a tan valley where her cleavage had been. The rest of the shirt held together, but barely. Its new neckline was wide enough to reveal the edges of her triangular tan lines. 

"Perfect," he grinned.

She hugged her ribcage below the shelf of her breasts, looking down in awe. She was exposed nearly to the areolae and her top's remaining fabric looked as though it might tear at any moment. A chill ran through her as she wondered how long it would hold. 

Her expression flickered, unsure what to express.

"Really.... really lovely," he whispered, nonchalantly cupping one boob from below, assaying it before tracing a circle around its puffy tip.

She twisted away, mouth agape and hands protecting her chest. 

He caught her by the beltline and pulled her into his lap.

She landed on him with a squeal, legs sprawled and one arm flung over the backrest. Her forehead abutted his for a moment and then she dodged aside above his shoulder. 

The chair creaked under their combined weight and tipped rearward. She brought her knees up, tight together. More stitches in her shorts popped.

His hands went everywhere; finding all her ticklish spots.

She squirmed and giggled, involuntarily tucking her elbows and curling her toes. The scandal of it was enthralling. She was utterly vulnerable.

When he snugged his right hand between her thighs and began massaging her there using just the right amount of pressure, her face contorted against the leather and her voice attempted protest.

"Nn-Nn," was all that came out.

"Yes?" he prodded, isolating the hard bump of her clit. 

"N-ihh! Please not there!"

"Sensitive?"

She arched like a petted cat, biting her lower lip and humming. She realized, belatedly, how much better these molestations were feeling each day. 

He wobbled her clit side to side. 

"N-ah!" she exclaimed, aware that everything inside her was about to liquefy.

He undid the shorts' top button.

"Noh!" she scolded. 

"Why not?"

She grabbed the back of his head, raking his dark hair as she thought. 

He undid the next button. 

"'Cause we can't!" she hissed, grabbing his wrist.

"Can't what?" 

"Do that."

He undid the third button despite her interference, countering: "But it would be so much fun."

"No, seriously, stop! You're my boss! We can't sleep together!" 

"Who said anything about sleeping?" 

She tried to twist away as the fourth button sprang wide, pleading: "No, I'm not supposed to—" 

The last button came free. 

Immediately his finger was inside her.

"Eek!" she squealed, clenching all her limbs together, trapping his hand and hugging his neck.

"Jesus you're so fucking wet."

A pitchy moan announced her guilt. This new level of disgrace only stoked her excitement.

He drove his digit deeper, relishing her snugness. 

Her moans sweetened, becoming pure aural candy. 

"Goodness," he teased. "That's one eager pussy."

She clawed at the back of his neck, unable to defend her dignity yet desperately wishing she could. Her vagina throbbed on his finger.

"Did you shave it just for me?" he asked, rocking his hand. 

"Mohh!" she sobbed, transparently debauched.

He continued delving, smearing her hard clit with his palm.

She clung to him like a castaway on a life raft, pressing her forehead to the leather and exhaling in plaintive huffs.

He goaded her onward, whispering: "Were you hoping I'd shag you? Maybe a couple times?"

"Nu-Oh!"

"I bet you were."

"No, y'hafta sto—"

"You just need to beg for it, Kitten. Those are the rules."

With conspicuous effort she muted herself, aware that her tone was undermining her.

He leaned back and sighed while keeping his hand busy, asking: "You know what your problem is?"

"Mm-Mm!"

"My partners have spoiled you. These past two days they've impressed upon you that this job is nothing but a pleasure-fest."

"Noh! Mm-m."

"Judging by your present state I'd say you were hoping for more of the same today. Isn't that right?"

Her eyes squinted shut and she answered him with an involuntary, open-mouthed, whine. 

He continued massaging her, pretending to be unfazed: "Now I'm in charge of your discipline however, and things are going be much more rigid."

"Ohh!"

"For starters, you need reminding about your actual job," he went on. "It's to help recruit younger donors and patients, keep me and my partners happy and perform normal receptionist duties during business hours. Is that clear?"

"Mm-Hm!" 

"You'll notice nothing in that list involves you having wild orgasms, right?"

"Noh," she exhaled; mortified that he knew everything. It made her insides turn to jelly. "I never wan—" 

"Today," he cut her off by squeezing a second finger in, "you will focus on your duties. Is that clear?"

"Yes!" she cried, curling with pleasure. "Yes but you—"

He spread his fingers.

Words failed her. Drawn like a moth to her own burgeoning pyre she widened her thighs and bucked, impaling herself on his hand. It was a level of naughtiness so far beyond her experience that her brain briefly abdicated, witnessing the scene in the third-person and reporting that she looked like a depraved sugar-baby, mewing and grinding in her boss' lap. 

Ian made it worse by holding still; making her do the moving as he lectured: "You're here to help me, remember? Not the other way 'round."

"Nih-Hm!" she pled, humping his longest two fingers. All she wanted was to come. Nothing else mattered.

"I have needs too, T'; needs you'd be extremely adept at addressing."

"Yeah," she winced. "Just like tha—oh! Oh God!"

She was thrusting, appalled by herself yet unable to stop. 

His erection was obvious. She was nearly dry-humping it. 

He surprised her with a kiss on the neck, just beneath her ear, but she barely felt the shiver this gave her. The main event was between her legs, where things were hurtling toward a cliff.

He wiggled his hand. 

"YEh-ss!" she cried, tightening her grip. 

"Does the princess deign to offer me anything in return?"

"Nohh!" she inflected, unable to mute herself as her abdomen clenched rhythmically, beating her swollen vulva onto his hand. 

"We could do it right here on the floor, or the sofa."

She practically convulsed at this, grinding even harder.

"Or are you just a tease?"

"Neehuh!" was the only sound she could manage; not even a shake of her head. The delight in her voice was clear. 

"Beg me."

Such confessions were the last thing she would surrender. But all she could think of was sex.

"Come on, you know you want it."

She didn't hear him. Suddenly every muscle in her young frame tensed and her jaw gaped wide. 

He pulled his hand out.

"N-don't stop!" she cried, squirming higher in his lap, pressing her boobs to his face.

He up-righted the chair and released her.

She tumbled clumsily to the floor, landing on all fours. 

"That's enough of that," he spat flatly, standing over her. "No more till you start earning your keep."

She scrambled upward and grabbed him, wild-eyed and weak-legged. "No, you—you can't leave me like this!"

"Yes I can." 

He then hauled her to her feet and began roughly buttoning her shorts back together. 

She resisted, clawing his hands away. Her clit wailed like a siren. She only needed a few more seconds to peak.

"Please!" she simpered. 

He persisted with her fly, getting the second and third buttons redone while she fought him clumsily. As soon as he got the last two closed he abruptly stepped aside to his desk. 

She was left teetering behind him, knock-kneed and besotted. 

He opened a drawer and extracted an inch-wide silver bell that was polished to a mirror shine. When he dangled it in front of her it tinged like a concert triangle.

"This," he announced, "will remind you to focus on others' needs."

He brought the bell to her throat and clipped it to the metal ring of her choker with a snap. It tinged cheerily as he let go.

"Please, you... you can't," she stammered, covering her newly-ornamented neck with one hand, trembling everywhere else with denial.

"Your outfit is now complete," he said. "It's not great, but it's the best I can do. Now run along and take care of your morning chores. Be especially sure to remind everyone to catch up on their billing today; that's the whole point of these no-patient Wednesdays. And I want you back here in twenty minutes, understand? Every minute you're tardy will add to your tally of spankings."

"Please!" she protested desperately.

"The sooner you start focusing on your job," he added, "the sooner I'll remove that bell. But until then you will jingle while you walk."

Crestfallen to the point of despair, she stamped her feet. No man had ever had the temerity to abandon her at the doorstep like this. All she wanted was a little more. The bell wobbled and tinged.

"Run along. Your time starts now."

She nearly swooned. Her entire nervous system was a torch of horniness. Her right hand fell to her shorts.

He scanned her and smiled: "You are cute when you're mad though... I'll grant you that." 

She grabbed her crotch and her chest. Her look was pleading. 

He struggled to resist this, cognizant of having just tethered himself to the proverbial mast against her siren song. Of course he wanted to fuck her, desperately, but rules were rules. She had to beg for it. 

It required every ounce of his self-discipline to point her toward the door. 

"Tick tock," he said.

She remained blind in her own storm of conflicting impulses. For a moment neither of them budged. They just stared, dueling by eye. 

But her brain began to resolve a brand-new set of calculations, faster than he realized, and it wasn't long before a new bolt slid back from its hasp. 

She dipped her gaze to the bulge in his trousers and, for the first time in her life, licked her teeth for a man.

This hurt him physically. He staggered back, bumping into the arm of his chair. 

She dragged her wet tongue between canines, staring him up and down. It was his kryptonite. And she absolutely knew it. 

Within two steps she'd doffed her sandals and descended to her natural height, slackening her jaw as she neared him.

At an inch away she pivoted her hand to his fly.

This broke everything he thought he knew about her, but he was too drunk with lust to care. He couldn't back up. Nor did he want to.

Wordlessly she eased his zipper down.

"R-really?" he asked.

Her hand went inside, fishing through his boxers. 

He gawped at first contact, becoming entirely warm.

She slowly drew back. His cock sprang to light.

Momentarily insecure, he smoothed his trousers flat; trying to make it look bigger. 

From her perspective he needn't have. His uncircumcised shape was plenty sturdy. She stared down and eased his foreskin back, unveiling his sensitive glans. 

Her mouth flooded. She had to swallow. She couldn't look anywhere else.

She canted her hips and began stroking him, urging his tip toward her navel. Her other hand reached for his balls. 

"Oh God Tiffany," he whispered.

She looked up: "Yeah?"

"You have to kiss me."

She coaxed his shaft higher and taunted: "Where?"

His heart tripped over this like a tree root. He nearly fainted. 

With a smirk she rose to her toes and gifted him a long, open kiss. Her lips were soft and her tongue was playful. 

His cock surged. She kept tugging it, smearing the tip across her flat stomach.

He grabbed her with both hands and held on; sealing her mouth to his in an earnest embrace as his captaincy shattered. 

She let herself be squashed, flattening her boobs against him as she stroked. 

"Fuck yes," he grunted into her mouth. 

She broke away and sucked his lower lip, then delivered a line of kisses down his chin to his neck. Her breasts stayed crowded together against him, nearly spilling out.

He ran a hand up her spine, into her hair, keeping her close.

She tugged his cock eagerly, kissing his shirt and cupping his balls through his fly. Then she leaned back and gazed up at him, hanging in his arms. 

Dots of pre-cum littered her tummy. She kept stroking, making more. 

"Is this what you want?" she whispered.

"Yes!"

A smile bent the curve of her pretty girl mouth as she unlocked her knees and sank lower. 

His world narrowed to a pin.

From the floor she looked up, tugging his length toward her face. It was salacious as hell.

He swayed above the spectacle, entirely unmoored.

She pulled his balls forward, then ducked under and kissed them. 

He groaned, aghast at the sensation. His erection draped across her freckled cheek and hair. His balls shifted autonomously against the movement of her adoring lips. He thought he might climax from this alone, but then she proceeded to paint a languid, sloppy lick all the way up his frenulum and began to French it as though it were a mouth. 

He stared down at her, overjoyed. 

She gripped his root and pursed her lips, flicking and smacking his most sensitive nerves. Then she widened her jaw and enshrouded his whole crown in a single, ambitious slurp.

"Ohh fucking God," he moaned.

Hoops were being licked around his helmet, under his foreskin. It was like being in a cock-washing machine.

He lost it, bracketing her face with both hands and thrusting. 

She absorbed half his length with an impish grunt.

He pulled back and pushed again, making her bell ting.

"Fuck yes," he enthused, ecstatic to be inside her. 

He began humping her slick mouth, compelling her to concentrate as the bell matched his tempo.

This wasn't her first rodeo by any means, but her ex-boyfriend had been skinnier. She tried to stick her tongue out beyond her teeth but it was difficult to keep her jaw so wide. His cockhead barely fit between her tonsils. The effort of not gagging made her blink.

He was rapt. This was everything he wanted, only better. He cradled her head and moaned. 

Her neck veins bulged as she sucked. Her eyes began to water.

The ringing bell and her thickening drool became positively Pavlovian. He kept thrusting, making her struggle to accommodate him. Soon she was gurgling and coughing. Her throat cinched at his very tip like a slippery ring, blocking any ingress yet maddeningly sexy. 

He worked himself against this spot until she twisted aside, expelling him with an urgent gasp. 

His cock bobbed against her face, impatient and gleaming. Threads of saliva hung from her chin. She ducked under his length for another slow lick from root to glans.

It was the hottest thing he'd ever seen.

Then she resumed on her own; bobbing her head and cradling his balls. Her nostrils flared as the silver bell rang. 

"God yes!" he grunted, curling his toes in his shoes. 

She began to hum, sounding increasingly congested. Lines of her spit slipped out in sequence, crisscrossing to the carpet between them. 

At one point he withdrew again to let her recover, but she grabbed his thighs and pulled him back in, sucking harder. 

He moaned and throbbed in answer, leaking more pre-cum which compounded her slipperiness. He began emitting blissful whimpers as her tongue's wet frictions continued. She was scrubbing his underside, squeezing her lips and smacking his tip into the back of her mouth. Squeaks and little gags signaled her commitment. 

He sped up, not quite believing the urgency he felt. All he wanted was to flood her mouth with a load of cum. The hope that she might swallow it all and keep sucking afterward triggered another dose of his pre-cum. 

Her eyes rolled back and she became utterly sloppy but didn't slow down; even when a bubble emerged from her nose. 

He knew he couldn't last at this rate; she was much too good. He pulled free and tried to settle down.

She inhaled quickly and then slurped him back in, re-sealing the suction he'd broken. 

What he felt and saw was fantastic. She was worshiping his cock; vacuuming and scrubbing, humming and slurping, leaving him to just stand there and take it as her pretty face worked. Two-thirds of his cock was disappearing past her lips; out and then in, over and over.

It was crazy. His balls started thrumming. He closed his eyes and embraced the inevitable, letting himself get closer by the second. Her bell was ringing right under him, so close to his balls he could nearly could feel it. Suddenly he pulled her closer and froze, grimacing as he savored his last moments of exquisite agency.

She felt muted by cock, caught between his hands' desperate grip and the pressure of his fat crown against her throat. There was nothing she could do but wiggle her tongue and hold on.

With a throb and a whispered "ohh" he sent a penultimate squirt straight down her throat. It was thick and ferociously salty.

Immediately she twisted free, ejecting him with a neck-bulging cough that was straight from his fantasies.

"So fucking good!" he relished, letting her go. 

She observed his cock nodding rigidly between them, nearly upright with tension. It was dripping at the rate of his heart. 

She looked up with an expression of sudden lucidity, reeling as if this reality had just materialized out of nowhere, and then in a single motion snapped back onto her haunches and stood, concealing her mouth with both hands. 

He was too stoned to understand. He just stayed there with is cock out, gaping.

No words transpired before she turned and ran from his room, jingling at the neck and bouncing out of her shirt.

"No!" he cried, too late, arms outstretched.

The bell faded as she vanished into the hall. 

Her sandals lay catawampus, forgotten. Her drool began to cool. 

"Fuck!" he wheezed, stooping in anguish.

SCENE TWENTY-TWO

Tiffany gripped the edge of the lobby credenza, alone again. 

Initially she could only focus on breathing; trying to tamp down her panic even though she didn't know how. The only solution was escape, surely, after what she'd just done.

She imagined Mitchell in his office, erect and probably purple with rage. She'd deserted him mid-blowjob. 

Who does that?!

She wiped her mouth. It was damningly slick. Then she balled her fists and beat the credenza, agonized by how ridiculous she was being. She should simply leave -- walk out. She even had normal clothes to wear. There was nothing stopping her.

'Stop being such a slut!' her ego scolded. 'Just leave!'

But her id wasn't listening. It had only just begun to fight. 

She fumbled with the coffee maker and opened a new pound of beans.

The clinic's entryway squeaked behind her, making her jump. 

"'Morning, Sweetheart!" Doctor Adams announced cheerily, arriving with the town's local newspaper tucked under one arm. Fresh air rushed in behind him, briefly puffing his sandy locks.

"Shoot—Um, hi," she fumbled, quickly turning back to the credenza and wiping her face more thoroughly. She clutched her neckline and busied herself loading the grinder.

"Holy smokes," he offered, pausing en-route to the hallway. "That's quite an outfit."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry. Not my fault, actually."

"Grisholm?"

"Well... he picked it. Then Doctor Mitchell had his way."

"Wild."

"Yes sir."

"Hm. I guess it's true what they say."

"What that?"

"Y'gotta watch the quiet ones.'"

She smirked but kept her head down to mask her condition.

He chuckled and tapped the corner of the credenza with his newspaper. "I'll take one of those while you're at it."




Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 04



"One of what?"

"Coffee. Wha'dya think I meant?"

"Oh, um, nothing. Sure, I'll bring one in a sec."

She squeezed the grinder until it whirred noisily. To her relief Adams continued on his way down the hall. 

"What the hell," she swore under her breath. "I can't do this all summer!"

Half of her expected a Mitchell to appear, fully nude, and drag her back to his office on her knees. But he didn't.

Instead an awareness settled on her that the clinic's glass entrance doors offered no concealment from the parking lot outside. No patients were expected but the prospect of other people stopping by was hardly remote. 

With renewed self-consciousness she got the brew started and then locked the door before doing a quick tour of the room, making sure everything was clean and orderly. Then she washed her face in the bathroom sink, donned her headset and transcribed the overnight voicemails. 

By that point the coffee was done, so she got out two mugs and some milk. She had to stare past her boobs while pouring the milk, which provided an unnecessary reminder of her exposure. 

She quaffed a half cup straight down and then she poured Doctor Jacobsen's, increasingly terrified by the prospect of his mood after such a long wait for caffeine. 

With his favorite mug full to the brim she padded barefoot down the corridor as quietly as possible, keeping one hand over her bell to muffle it. At the very end she stopped outside Ivan's door and tucked her hair behind one ear. 

She still felt more afraid of him than any of the other doctors, mostly on account of his severe demeanor and the rigor of his spanking on Monday. She'd been unable to compartmentalize that memory yet.

His coffee wobbled in her grip. 

Nowhere near calm, she raised her fist and knocked.

"Enter!" his voice shouted.

She whimpered through a bitten lip while twisting the handle and then forced a smile.

The modern, solid-core door swung inward, revealing his domain.

Ivan had worked-up a good scowl already that morning, imagining all sorts of opening lines to greet her with, each more stinging than the last. He prided himself on being stern and unflappable; on having an utterly convincing professional mask.

He was, however, quite unready for Tiffany's present appearance. Her breasts were half-out and her clothes covered so little they may as well have been underwear. She was barefoot, grinning, and had a silver bell at her neck like some sort of dystopian nymph.

Words failed him. He attempted to stand but immediately had to catch himself because the floor swam. He swiped his bifocals from his face and peered at her with his jaw agape and neck craned.

"Good morning, sir," she began sweetly, maintaining the widest possible grin. "I've brought your coffee, just how you like it; Milk and no sugar."

He perceived only curves of freckled skin, wobbling at the offbeat, accompanied by a gently tinging bell. 

He went pale. 

"You alright, sir?" she asked, narrowing the distance between them. 

"What... what are you...?' he managed, gesturing with his spectacles.

"Oh... um... Doctor Mitchell did it. Sorta a joke I guess."

She reached the desk and bent over, lowering his mug onto a leather coaster he kept aside for the purpose.

From Ivan's perspective this posture made her breasts appear to grow. They crowded forward and nearly spilled from her neckline. Even for an avowed foot-man like himself this proved too much. He reached out and squeezed one. 

"Ah!" she sprang back, ringing loudly. "Sorry, I—I'm just really sensitive this morning."

His cerebrum turned to treacle. "Sens...?"

"Yes sir," she answered, back-pedaling toward the door with her nipples covered. 

"Wait. He put a bell on you?"

"Yeah, I dunno. There's your coffee, sir. You don't need anything else, do you? Mitchell's got me running very tightly."

"T-tightly?"

"My schedule, I mean. Yes sir."

"But you're so late." 

"I know an' I'm real sorry. I'll bring you more in a bit, okay?" 

She'd almost reached the doorway, continuing: "There's a fresh pot in the lobby. And Doctor Mitchell wants me to remind you about billing."

Ivan spread his arms. "But—"

She felt the threshold underfoot and brightened her smile: "Be back soon!"

"Sto—!"

She pulled his door shut and ran, clutching her chest, slapping her feet and chanting Jesus' name. 

Jacobsen collapsed into his chair like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He was aroused and dejected all at once. He hadn't even had time to admire her feet. 

"A fucking bell?" he exclaimed. "Damn it, Mitchell!" 

Tiffany made it back to the lobby and quickly poured Adams' coffee. Within seconds she was at his door, knocking quietly so as not to be overheard by anyone else.

"Come," Adams called.

She pushed through and shut herself in, careful not to spill.

"Hi sir," she said with her morning's most comfortable smile.

"Hey."

"Mitchell says everyone needs to do billing." 

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh." 

She approached his desk and cast her gaze about for an uncluttered spot to set down his mug.

"Oh sorry. Here, I'll take it," he offered, removing his feet from the only clear place and sitting up to accept his coffee above the paper piles. Then he slowly settled back in his chair and continued, "So... How's Rifle's most talked-about girl today?"

"What?"

"Oh. You didn't see?"

"See what?" she asked, suddenly worried.

He took a sip to buy time.

"Oh, uh, nothing," he lied. "It's just... Small town, you know? People talk is all."

"About me? Did someone say something about yesterday? That stupid thing?! Does my grandma know?"

"No-no, not at all. Sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out -- I was joking. Really. I mean... it's just... you're... very pretty so, people gossip. That's all. I'm sure your grandma hasn't heard anything."

She made a worried noise; churning through all sorts of negative potentialities. Up to then she hadn't really cared what people there thought of her. It was only a summer job after all and she planned to return to Boston as soon as possible. But now she reconsidered. She was meeting gobs of strangers every day and the various perversities being foisted on her by the four doctors suddenly seemed to pose a real risk. Word could get back to her family. 

"Jesus," she worried aloud.

Adams used the opportunity to steal a glance at her barely-clad figure. Once his eyes had returned to more polite latitudes he said: "Don't worry. You're fine, okay?"

She nodded, unfocussed. For the first time all day she didn't feel horny. And this, she realized, was with Adams who'd originally been so enticing. Somehow the absence of any sort of exploitive guile on his part made her feel oddly bored. 

"Huh," she wondered, pivoting to leave.

"Okay bye!" he joked.

"Sorry," she answered, snapping out of her reverie. "D'you need anything?"

"No, I'm cool. You just keep your chin up, okay? Forget what I said. We have a bunch of new patients on the calendar for next week and that's certainly because of you. You're doing a great job."

"Uh-huh."

"Mitchell is totally stoked about you."

"Shit!" she swore, remembering his twenty-minute deadline. "I'm late!"

She bolted from Adams' office so violently that the door's backswing nearly toppled a yard-high pile of files he'd been storing for a year. She sprinted toward the lobby and burst through the last door on the right.

"You're back!" Grisholm jumped, startled.

"Mitchell says do your billing, okay? I gotta run."

He noticed the bell, her feet and her clothes. 

"Wha...?" his voice collapsed in wonderment.

"I know, I know. Mitchell did it. But you're all set, right? Please say yes."

"Whoa, whoa. Slow down." 

He pushed his chair back and stood. 

She bounced on the balls of her feet, chiming like a reindeer. "I hafta go."

"Good heavens! What kind of...?"

She followed his approaching gaze and realized just how dramatic she looked. Her clothes barely covered anything.

"I'd never wear this in public!" she blurted, trying to sound indignant. 

"No, indeed," he agreed, going glassy eyed as he got nearer. 

"Billing," she repeated, snapping her fingers in front of him. "That's what Doctor Mitchell says."

"You can't stay?" he mumbled, drawn to her like gravity. 

She spun and darted out the door, fully reminded of his infatuation. 

On her way to the next room she swiveled and flashed her blue eyes back, confirming that Grisholm's moony face was leaning out through his doorway, optically superglued to her behind. 

SCENE TWENTY-THREE

"Done!" Tiffany announced as she tumbled into Mitchell's office. "Did I make it?"

Ian looked up from his computer and then checked his watch. "Nope."

"Urgh. But close, right? I did coffee and the phones and straightened the lobby and checked-in on everyone and reminded them all about billing. That's gotta count for something!" 

She finished this speech with an emphatic gesture, one hand on her hip and the other tossed skyward. 

He leaned back and gave her a steady stare, deliberately folding his arms. His expression said everything.

"Oh, right," she recalled, collapsing her pose. "Sorry, um... about earlier."

He sighed melodramatically and looked up at the ceiling, waiting for her to continue.

"I just... " she struggled, "You know...we got carried away, sir."

"I see." 

He still refused to look at her.

She crept forward into the room, scanning for her sandals but making sure to keep his desk between them. No part of her, for once, wanted to venture to the other side. 

When she spotted her shoes neatly arranged by the window behind him, she stilled and asked: "Are you mad?"

"Mad?" he replied with mock astonishment, unfolding his arms and looking directly at her. "Why would I be mad? Can you think of a reason?"

She knew better than to feed this. She dug one sandal into the carpet behind her and remained silent.

"Oh, I remember now!" he emoted like a B-movie villain; scowling and rising to his feet, "You were in the middle of giving me a blowjob..."

Her eyes flared and she knit her hands into a single fist. 

"...then you ran away!"

Her expression went beyond deer-in-the-headlights, to Bambi-sees-the-Hindenburg.

He relished this, letting it stretch as long as he could. The effort of not laughing made it funnier. He leaned against the side of his desk and stretched his legs out toward her, crossing one shoe over the other.

"Happy and relaxed," he sighed. "That's your job. And I would also like a coffee."

"A-also?" she stuttered, having by then squeezed all the circulation out of her hands.

"Yes. Is that too much to ask?"

"Coffee? no."

"Good. That'll be perfect after you finish my blowj—" 

"Don't say it!"

"Blowjob?"

"N-AH! Shh!"

"You prefer polishing helmet? Knob gob—"

"No! Not any—"

"Don't tell me fellatio."

"Not the word; the thing! I'm not doing that." 

"Could've fooled me this morning."

"You know what I mean. That was a mistake."

"Well, that's odd because on Monday Jacobsen and Adams had their way with you and then yesterday Grisholm got you off, twice. Now suddenly today...?"

She couldn't breathe. 

"...you claim chastity?"

"Sir, I..." "Hardly seem fair."

"But I didn't start any of that!"

"You certainly enjoyed it."

"I didn't do anything to them, they just did stuff to me, okay?"

"Is that a Millennial work-ethic?"

"No, sir... Come on!"

"Come? Where? In your mouth?"

"No!" she flapped her arms, equal parts exasperated and horrified. "Listen, can we please be normal for a sec? Just like, without all these crazy rules and clothes and stuff?" 

"You want to get naked?"

"No! Omigod! I just want to come here and work; like a normal person!"

"Well, you do come here... loudly I might add, but I'd hardly call that work."

"I'm being serious!"

"So am I. You are not winning this debate."

"But some of the stuff you guys are making me do is crazy. You said to flirt, so I did, okay? But—" 

"That's flirting? Leaving my balls half-exploded?"

She didn't answer. The mental picture was too much. 

"I'm still all pent-up!" he continued, waving an aggrieved gesture toward the window. 

Suddenly she wished she hadn't ventured into this conversation without so much as a toothbrush in preparedness.

He straightened to his full height and wandered off toward the other side of the room, leaving her to stew in her anxiety. Eventually he let out a long sigh and turned around.

"Look," he began. "Turnabout is fair play, okay? You pretty much killed me this morning, but I'm not mad. I did the same to you first, so..."

She squinted, struggling to discern whether this was just another rhetorical wind-up.

"Really?" she doubted.

"Sure. I just didn't know you had such... pluck. That's all."

"Oh." 

For an instant a smile flitted through her lips, not long enough for him to see. It was the closest thing to a victory dance she could afford.

"So then..." she recovered. "What now?"

"I'll take that coffee, actually."

"Just a coffee?"

"Yup."

"N'kay. Sure," she shrugged; having decided it was safe to fetch her shoes first.

"Great, thanks. Oh, and by the way Tiff', just so you know, you might want to put a little hustle on that because we need to leave in five minutes."

"Leave? Why?"

"To go thank your new friend Cartwright."

This surprised her so completely that she coughed and swallowed simultaneously, nearly giving herself a case of hiccups. 

"Oh did you forget that?" he asked with a Cheshire grin, sauntering closer. "I've already called the shop to let them know we're coming."

She did the Bambi thing again.

"We're bringing pastries," he purred. "And you... are going to hand them out."

*