Thomas Mallory was pissed off.

His search for a new secretary wasn't going to his liking.

"Where are the big-titted bimbos?" he asked aloud. "Where are the sluts you can't help sexually harassing? The blow-job dispensing interns? Where the fuck are they?"

Nowhere in his vicinity.

And Mallory had his arch-nemesis, Nathaniel Higgins, to thank for that.

"Damn you, Higgins!" he yelled, "And your fucking promotion to personnel! I know it's you, who's sending me these - these secretaries!"

And it was true. Nathaniel Higgins was abusing his power by getting back at a hated enemy. He was denying Mallory what the sexist most wanted: a beautiful, big-titted bimbo, who would go down on her boss at a moment's notice. He was hurting Mallory the best way he knew how: Nathaniel Higgins was doing his job. He was actually sending Mallory competent secretaries. The best in the industry. What these ladies lacked in looks, they more than made up for in skills. And if Thomas Mallory couldn't appreciate that - good!

So for weeks, Mallory endured interview after interview. He heard how many words-per-minute they could type. How many computer programs they knew. Their years of experience. Their references. Their this. Their that. Yada, yada and mo' yada!

It was a joke. That's what he thought at first. These ugly heifers being paraded in front of his desk were a joke, right? The prime stuff was out there. The ex-beauty contestants, the aspiring actresses and models; the hookers, for Christ's sake, were out there! They had to be, Mallory thought. He didn't work, scheme, lie, cheat, backstab his way to this office just to get a competent secretary who looked like his mom. It had to be a joke.

But it wasn't. And higher-up was starting to wonder why it was taking their newest executive so long to hire a new secretary. They said they had seen the quality of applicants applying for the job and said they would kill for anyone of them.

Yeah, right, thought Mallory sarcastically, sure they would. He knew about higher-up and their secretaries. Now those were secretaries worth killing for. Drop-dead gorgeous women who would drop down on your dick at a moment's notice. Mallory remembered once when he saved the company some money. Make that A LOT of money! He had been the hero of the day, rewarded by higher-up. They'd allowed him access - all access - to one of their secretaries, Lola. The woman was incredible.

Mallory remembered the dimly-lit room, the ergonomic chair, and Lola. The woman appeared out of nowhere. "Hello, Mr Mallory," she said and Thomas almost came right then and there.

Because of three words. That's all Lola had said. But she had said them with more sensuality - carnality - than a group orgy. Something Mallory had experienced first-hand. But this was different. He heard in Lola's voice not only the essence of sex, but the promise thereof. He heard in three words - the most basic of day-to-day greetings - the promise of erotic pleasures beyond anything he could ever imagine. An evening he was guaranteed never to forget. That's what was promised. He only hoped it was a promise that the woman standing before him could keep.

Lola kept the promise ... and then some.

She vogued towards Mallory. That was the only way to describe her forward motion. Vogueing. Each movement was a stylized pose - a work of art! Step-pose. Step-pose. Step-pose.

Mallory looked over his shoulder, managing to tear his eyes away from the beautiful Lola. He had to confirm the presence or absence of the photographers he just knew were behind him. None were there but, as he imagined a co-worker in the near-future showing him a fashion mag containing pictures of him and Lola, Mallory still had his doubts.

But if such an incident happened, it would be in the future - a promissory note that might never come - the present was and always would be cash, thought Mallory, as he watched Lola vogue ever-closer to him (Step-pose. Step-pose.) Time to cash-in on the great job I did for the company.

Lola was done vogueing. Her final pose had her standing before Mallory with her hands clasped behind her back, her chest out, and her head turned to the right. Offering herself to Mallory in the simplest way possible.

To quote the Godfather: "It was an offer he couldn't refuse." Mallory grabbed Lola's breasts and rammed his head into her deep cleavage. It was an action done with such force that Lola actually had to adjust her pose.

"Slow down, tiger, you got plenty of time," she said.

But Mallory couldn't hear her. And if he did, he wouldn't have stopped, even if he knew how to. Lola was the red cape in front of a bull, the bourbon-filled shot glass in front of the alcoholic, and the platinum credit card in front of the compulsive shopper all rolled into one - no man could resist her. Especially Thomas Mallory.

Extricating himself from her cleavage for a moment, Mallory's eyes surveyed the visible curves of Lola's wondrous chest. A canyon formed by two massive swells of female flesh tanned to a golden sheen, endowed with gravity-defying firmness, and blessed with the baby-smooth skin of a newborn was what he saw. Lola's clothing covered the rest. Something Mallory was determined to rectify.

Mallory ripped off Lola's top exposing her brassiere. It was a black satiny thing that seemed molded to Lola's skin. It had no straps, hooks, or fasteners of any kind causing Mallory to wonder what kind of support it really provided Lola's breasts. It also made him wonder something else that he voiced aloud:

"How the hell do I take this thing off?"

Lola locked eyes with Mallory. Running her fingers down the sides of her bra, she began to slowly squeeze and knead her breasts causing her nipples, nonexistent at first, to visibly expand and grow more than an inch in length. Her roving fingers, moving to the jutting points, tweaked and massaged her nipples causing Lola to moan in self-administered pleasure two words to Mallory:

"Rip it!"

Mallory, distracted by Lola's nipple-play, had forgotten all about removing her bra. Standing in a puddle of his own drool, he was suddenly a voyeur - one content to be passively watching instead of actively doing.

Lola wasn't having any of that. "Rip it!" she commanded in a bark worthy of an Army Drill Sergeant.

Mallory's response to Lola's command was instantaneous. He placed his hands on the bra and moved them slowly across the bra's surface trying to find the best place for maximum rippage. He searched the front of the bra, the back of the bra, and the sides without success.

So he went inside the bra. His hands, quickly locating Lola's cleavage, rubbed against her warm sweat-drenched flesh causing goose bumps to appear. He lingered awhile in the valley of Lola's cleavage. His hands, enveloped in her twin mounds of flesh, didn't want to leave. But they had to, he realized when he heard Lola say: "I said, 'Rip it'!"

He removed his hands reluctantly from Lola's cleavage. He moved them to the inside of the bra. He grasped the bra trying to find the best place to rip it. He decided on a point, counted internally to three and...

Nothing.

The bra should've been ripped to shreds. But it wasn't. Mallory didn't even stretch it out of shape. And to make matters worse, Lola was laughing at him.

"Oh, my weak little boy. Is my little itty-witty bra too strong for you?"

Mallory stood staring at the bra and shook his head. The dream had become a nightmare. Time to wake up. But he was awake. And, thus, noticed that the bra was still unbroken, the beautiful woman in front of him was still clothed, and, to make matters worse, she was still laughing at him.

"If you're not big and strong enough to rip my bra then I guess you're not big and strong enough for me," she said, moving in the direction of her ripped top discarded on the floor.

"Nooo!" Mallory yelled. That single word contained all the anxiety, desperation, and frustration he was feeling. Standing in front of him was a fantasy woman, who was going to grab her clothes and leave because he wasn't man enough to rip her bra. He couldn't let that happen. His manhood was on the line. Because Lola was one of his bosses' secretaries, his job was on the line. He had to do something. Now! He had to...

React like an animal.

Mallory pounced on Lola's bra. His hands - claws - started tearing the bra to smithereens. They were assisted by his teeth - fangs - gnashing and gnawing. In seconds, the animalistic side of Mallory was able to do what his civilized side couldn't: rip Lola's bra.

Her bra destroyed, Lola's tits sprang forth, as if fired from a cannon, right into the waiting hands of Mallory. Squeezed. Groped. Fondled. Those were some of the things, Mallory did to Lola's tits. But they weren't enough. After the trouble he had ripping Lola's bra, Mallory wanted to do more. A whole lot more.

"On the floor!" he snarled, his animal side still in dominance.

"What?" a confused Lola asked.

Like a professional wrestler, Mallory scooped Lola up and dropped her on the floor. Fortunately for both their careers, this was an executive office with executive carpeting. What could've easily been a prosecutable act of violence turned out to be little more than rough sex; something that Lola, as Mallory's boss' secretary, was quite used to.

Mallory, standing over Lola, stared at her tits. That was all that interested him. Her long legs, curvaceous body, and virgin-tight pussy could wait. Right now, it was titty-time!

Mallory ripped his pants off as if they were breakaway and he was a Chippendale dancer. Now you see them; now you don't. A small voice in his head - the voice of reason - started to complain about how expensive those pants were, but Mallory told the voice to shut up. Being the voice of reason, it had the good sense to listen. His mind clear of all distractions, Mallory repeated the breakaway maneuver on his designer briefs and instantly revealed 10" of biological steel.

Lola, impressed with Mallory's erection, rose to grab it. She was stopped by Mallory who mounted himself astride Lola's legs. "Don't move," he said, sliding forward. Once he obtained the desired position, Mallory grabbed Lola's tits. He jiggled them, testing his grip. Satisfied, he rammed his cock between Lola's cleavage and started pumping.

The sounds of pleasure came soon afterwards. The moans, the squeaks, and the screams. A direct result of Mallory's dick rubbing against Lola's sensitive breasts over and over and over again.

Mallory added to Lola's noise with some of his own. He grunted her name and how wonderful her tits were. He continued pumping in and out of her cleavage, enjoying the best tit-fuck of his life.

Eventually, inevitably, and greatly he came. His dick, spewing cum like a fire hose, totally covered Lola while simultaneously draining Mallory. It was so exhaustive a process that Mallory immediately passed out after cumming.

Lola, feeling the sudden increase in Mallory's weight, instantly recognized what happened. It wasn't the first time a man passed out on her and it probably wouldn't be the last time, either.

She checked Mallory's pulse to make sure he was alive. He was. Good, she thought, briefly recalling that one time when she checked for a pulse and it didn't exist. It wasn't an experience she wanted to repeat ... ever.

She then tried pushing Mallory's body off her. But he wouldn't budge. His body was too heavy for Lola, who hated this part of the job. There was nothing worse than getting stuck under some unconscious sap's body.

Lola knew from past experience that eventually Mallory would shift his weight and she'd be able to escape. It was a routine occurrence in situations like this. But until that moment happened, Lola was left with a lot of free time on her hands. She spent it like she always did: cleaning herself up. Like a cat, she licked herself, slurping up Mallory's drying cum. Mallory's body limited where her tongue could go, but Lola did the best she could under the circumstances.

Once she finished licking her body, she shoved Mallory trying to wake him up. But he was still unconscious. Damn. Believing in the old axiom of making lemonade out of lemons, Lola stared at Mallory's dick. Sticking out of her cleavage, it was hard again. "Well, no use letting a hard dick go to waste," she said, clamping her mouth on the head of Mallory's cock.

When Mallory woke up, he didn't know how many times Lola sucked his dick. He didn't know if they fucked. He didn't know nothing. Lola was gone, his body was wet with saliva, and he was lying on the floor naked alongside shredded cloth that he could only speculate was once his very-expensive wardrobe. Time to check the ole memory-banks, he thought, trying to gain some perspective on his night with the fabulous Lola.

Well, he remembered Lola alright. Beauty like hers he'd never forget. He then tried recalling exactly what he and Lola had done together and found he couldn't remember a damn thing. Impossible, he thought. Thomas Mallory never forgot a sexual experience. It was how he kept score. Mentally. Notches in bedposts, stars in little black books, VHS video collections, and such were all a little too crude for him. "Real men did it with their minds" was his motto.

And if the mind failed you? Well, you do what Mallory did later that week when other guys in the company started questioning him about his performance with the great Lola - you lie!

Mallory's night with Lola became the stuff of legend, thanks to his embellishment of the truth. He was Casanova, Don Juan, and John Holmes all rolled up into one. The master of love, who only had to look at Lola to make her cum. When he touched her, it was like a virtuoso violinist caressing and stroking his instrument knowing exactly which spots generated the best music. And when he unveiled his dick...

It was the biggest schlong known to man. To say it intimidated Lola was the understatement of the year. Mallory wouldn't even think of ramming it in Lola's pussy - it would never fit. No, being the merciful, generous, and selfless lover he was, Mallory would only contemplate a tit-fuck. Anything else would be uncivilized.

Those were the lies that made their way to Lola, who was pissed off by them. Initially. After all, she was with Mallory that night and knew events didn't remotely resemble his fanciful descriptions. She knew the truth. And felt the rest of the company should know it as well.

But as Lola made her plans to discredit Mallory a strange thing happened. She started enjoying Mallory's lies. Hearing on an almost daily basis about their sexual shenanigans, kinky lovemaking, and bizarre fantasies made real was something Lola looked forward to. Eagerly. She was like a rabid soap opera fan incapable of missing a single episode. Add to it the facts that this was a real soap opera and she was one of its main participants and Lola was no longer interested in stopping Mallory's lies.

Her boss - and Mallory's boss - was a different matter. He, like everyone else in the company, had heard the stories of Mallory and Lola - his Lola - and he wasn't happy.

One night. That was the deal. One night of Lola's services to reward an up-and-coming executive that saved the company a lot of money. That was the deal and he understood it. Hell, when he was a young up-and-comer he had more than his share of such deals. It was how the company operated. But what he was hearing through the grapevine wasn't the events of one night. It wasn't part of the deal. No, he was hearing through the grapevine that that punk Mallory was fucking his secretary, doing all kinds of freaky and perverted acts to her on an almost daily basis. It was grounds for suspension. It was grounds for termination. It was grounds for death.

Mallory was called before his boss, who proceeded to tear him a new ass-hole. The man was yelling so much that it attracted the attention of Lola in the next room. Realizing what was going on, she rushed into the office and explained everything to her boss. He, of course, had his doubts about Lola coming to Mallory's rescue and seriously considered getting rid of both of them. But that was before one of Lola's patented blow-jobs. Afterwards, he was lucky even to remember Mallory's name.

Mallory, however, would never forget how close he came to getting fired or worse. He had made a mistake. An almost fatal one jeopardizing his career. He couldn't allow anything like that to happen again. So, he made the decision to distance himself from Lola and their night together.

And up to this point, it worked. Despite the ever-persistent rumors and the fact that she was his boss' secretary, Mallory did not think about Lola. For him, she didn't exist. Work and making it to the top was all he cared about. Staying on the fast-track. Making it. That was all he cared about now.

And he did it. He was on the inside now. An executive. Ready to have his very own Lola. But he couldn't because of that damn Higgins in personnel.

"Damn you, Higgins!" he yelled suddenly. "Damn you to hell!"

He had one more applicant to look at. Agnes Newberry. One more heifer and he could call it a day, he thought, giving her file a quick glance. He always gave the files a quick glance. Why waste his time reading, the applicants usually repeated the same info verbatim anyway.

He took a deep breath: inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. It was something he learned in one of those mandatory seminars that everyone on the fast-track takes. Breathing that way was suppose to center him. Calm him down. Too bad it wasn't working.

He couldn't take his mind off Higgins. Revenge was one thing, but when you mess with a man's secretary ... well, you're just going too far. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Well, there was one thing. Nobody said he had to have a female secretary. He could hire a male secretary or whatever label those pansies went by and thumb his nose at Higgins. It would be a rather unorthodox move on his part and, with his luck, the guy would have to be a fruit but when the alternative was Agnes Newberry...

"Damn you, Higgins!"

Mallory's outburst was answered by a knock on his door.

"Who is it?"

"Uh, sir, I have an appointment to be interviewed by you and I was wondering, uh, uh, did you just call me?"

Of course I didn't call you! Mallory raged inside. How does "Damn you, Higgins" sound anything like "Please come in, Miss Newberry"? And what's with that voice of hers? She sounds like a two-year old! Has this woman even gone through puberty?

Mallory needed to calm down. In these litigious times it wouldn't do for him to greet this Newberry woman in an agitated state. No, he really needed to calm down. So, back to the breathing exercise he went. Inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. Over and over again. Until it worked. Mallory calmed down enough to ask Miss Newberry into his office.

He had expected the worst and thus was prepared for the sight that greeted him when Miss Newberry opened the door. The woman represented all the things he hated in the secretarial candidates Higgins was sending his way. For starters, the woman lacked any style.

Her wardrobe - and the word was used lightly - was an amalgam of gray mixed with slight variations of gray topped off with a hint of black. Were her clothes absorbing the room's light, Mallory wondered as he seriously contemplated calling maintenance and asking for a spotlight.

Shaking his head and adjusting his eyes, Mallory noted the specific articles of clothing worn by Miss Newberry. He started at her feet and worked up. It took him a moment to notice the woman's footwear as her shoes were covered by her extremely long dress. When he saw them, he saw they were a pair of black orthopedic shoes in a style that Mallory's grandmother wouldn't have been seen dead in if she'd still been alive. To say the shoes were outdated would be an understatement. Mallory speculated they were the very first pair of orthopedic shoes ever made and that Newberry had somehow stolen them from an exhibit in the Smithsonian.

The woman's long dress caught his attention next with its great length. Mallory, doing some mental calculations, concluded the dress would've looked acceptable on a tall woman like a statuesque six feet tall supermodel. It would've looked even better on an even taller woman like a power forward in the WNBA. Agnes Newberry, however, wasn't a tall woman. Standing 4'10", she looked like she was drowning in a sea of gray.

Mallory tried to find where the dress ended and Newberry's sweater-top (so fashionable in the 50's) began. He couldn't. The only clue he had that a person was even in the clothing was Newberry's face.

Mallory was forced to do a double-take. He hadn't read much of Newberry's personal file, but he did recall her age. Her file said she was a twenty-three year old, but the woman standing before him looked twice that age.

Her hair looked gray. And then it didn't. Mallory had to keep blinking his eyes to see Newberry's natural, more youthful mane of hair. It was a trick of the lights that worked against Agnes. Whereas some women's hair attracted the light for the better, hers definitely didn't. And, proving that no matter how bad you think something is that it can become infinitely worse, she had her hair styled in the harshest, most severe bun Mallory had ever seen.

Below Newberry's hairline were twin window panes bracketed and shaped by wire. Eyeglasses, Mallory thought, but they're so damn big. How does such a small face carry those things? I heard of bifocals and trifocals, but what are those things? Octofocals?

Newberry watched as her potential employer looked at her. Her past experience had taught her to be patient and wait until the individual adjusted to her appearance. So, she just stood in place and waited until Mallory responded.

Newberry waited longer than she ever had in the past and Mallory still hadn't responded. Odd, she thought, I'm normally kicked out of the office at this point. Could it be that he actually read about my special talent?

"Uh, Mr Mallory," she said trying to get his attention. "Uh, Mr Mallory, sir."

Mallory heard the voice and responded. His mind went instantly into interview mode. "Miss Newberry, tell me about your experiences."

Newberry did a double-take. She thought that Mallory had read her personnel file. But here he was asking about her experiences. Confusing. Very confusing. She hadn't been kicked out yet, so maybe it was just a formality. He had to be the one.

She took a deep breath and began reciting her qualifications for the job. She quoted her above-level typing speed, her extensive knowledge of the available computer programs designed especially for the office, and the usual stuff that Mallory had heard from all the previous applicants stated the exact same way in the exact same order.

He waited for the part of the interview where Agnes would tell him how experienced an applicant she was and how enthused her previous employers were with her service. And sure enough, right on cue, she talked about her previous experience and references. It was all so predictable, Mallory thought, yawning loudly.

But then Newberry surprised him.

Unlike all the other applicants that passed through Mallory's door, Newberry admitted that she didn't have much experience. She admitted her lack of impressive references. She did this without any prompting and in one of the best displays of honesty and forthrightness ever seen in Mallory's office.

Unfortunately, she also did it in that two-year old squeak of a voice she had. Every syllable she uttered affected Mallory like fingernails scraping a blackboard - it drove him crazy. He had to constantly restrain himself from telling her to shut the fuck up.

Finally, he could no longer restrain himself.

"Miss Newberry, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to be able to make use of your talents and skills," Mallory said. Using all the acting skills he possessed, he tried to convince Newberry and himself that he was losing the best secretary in the world had ever seen. He even shed a tear, which he dramatically wiped from his eyes.

His acting worked. Too well. Newberry looked dumbfounded. She looked as if she thought Mallory really was losing the best secretary in the world - her. In two words she tried to convey her confusion. "Pardon me," she said.

Mallory just ran with the situation. If Newberry wanted to think she was the best secretary in the world it was no skin off his nose.

"Miss Newberry," he began hesitantly, "I would love to hire you. A woman with your talents and skills ... is a dream come true to a young executive like myself. Unfortunately, I've done some calculations and, well, there's just not enough to pay you what you're worth."

"It's not about the money, Mr Mallory," she tried protesting, but without success.

Mallory had come up with a sufficient excuse to get rid of her and he was sticking to it. He rose from his desk and walked to Newberry. Towering over the woman, he gently nudged her out of his office, repeating all the while how he would like to hire her but couldn't due to financial reasons.

Newberry continued saying how it wasn't about the money, but Mallory ignored her. He slammed the door once he had her out of his office, hoping never to see the woman again. Mission accomplished.

Returning to his desk, Mallory felt calmer than he had all day. Getting rid of Agnes Newberry was a much better sedative than any old breathing exercise, he thought. Now if only he could get rid of Higgins - teach that bastard not to send him any more fucked-up secretaries. That would be heaven on earth. Getting rid of Higgins.

So intent was Mallory's focus on getting rid of Higgins that it took him a moment to hear the click of his office door. He turned in the direction of the door and saw...

Agnes Newberry - turning the key in the lock.

"Uh, Miss Newberry, what are you doing?" Mallory asked, a note of fear creeping in his voice.

"I'm going to be your secretary," she said. "Do you understand?"

Mallory understood alright. He understood Higgins had sent him a psycho for a secretary. Didn't anyone believe in doing background checks anymore?

"Miss Newberry, when I showed you out of my office that concluded your interview. Do you understand? I'm not going to hire you. Trying to prolong the interviewing process is just going to put me in a situation where I'm going to have to call security. Do you understand?"

"Security?" she said in a surprised voice. "Why would you want to call them?"

Let's see, Mallory thought to himself: You're scaring the shit out of me, I'm locked in a room with you, I think you're some psycho nutcase capable of who knows what, and, dammit, this is all that dumbfuck Higgins' fault.

"Really, Mr Mallory," Agnes said in a voice more adult than two-year old, "if you read my file the last thing you would want to do is call security."

Her file? Mallory questioned, as sweat began running down his brow. What was in her file? Her police record? A newspaper clipping highlighting a psychotic episode? Did Higgins purposely send a psycho to a secretary interview? If so, then Mallory had him. Homicide was definitely grounds for dismissal.

At least, that's what he hoped trying to get Higgins out of his mind. He had to deal with the situation at hand - a psycho wanting to be his secretary and a file he didn't even read. So, he did what he always did in situations where he was unprepared. He bluffed.

"I read your file, Miss Newberry," he began. "And ... and..."

"You couldn't believe it, could you?" Agnes interrupted.

Thinking she was talking about some ghastly act of violence she committed, Mallory responded: "No, I couldn't believe it."

"Most can't, you know?" she said. " It's the way I look, I guess. But you, Mr Mallory, you believe me, don't you?"

Mallory didn't like where this conversation was going at all. Did he believe she was a psycho-killer? Well, based on physical appearance, he had to admit that she was right: she didn't look like a homicidal maniac. But then most homicidal maniacs don't look like homicidal maniacs. If they did, people would run like hell from them. They wouldn't be stuck in an executive-office with one like Mallory was nodding their head up-and-down saying in unspoken terms: "Yes, Miss Newberry, I most definitely believe you're a psycho."

"So, you really believe me?" she asked.

Mallory nodded.

"Then you don't mind if I demonstrate what I can do?"

"Actually, Miss Newberry I do mind," Mallory said, words spilling out of his mouth at a hurried pace. "You don't have to demonstrate anything. I'm a believer, remember?"

"But don't you want to see?"

"No."

"I'm sure you'll like it."

"No."

"Well, I'm going to show you anyway," she said, instantly ending the discussion.

Mallory, of course, was horrified. He cowered behind his desk, while sweat drenched his clothing. His mind, becoming a cineplex of horror, ran through every scenario of his own death that he was capable of imagining. He tried to anticipate which scene of death would be enacted by Newberry, but he couldn't. There were too many of them. All he could do was wait for Newberry to show her hand.

"Ready?" Newberry asked. And without getting Mallory's consent, she showed not her hand but her shoes. They had changed dramatically. Magically.

Gone were the ancient black orthopedic shoes. Newberry was now wearing a pair of red pumps with five-inch heels.

"What happened to your shoes?" Mallory asked. But Newberry ignored him.

She instead grabbed as much of her long dress' bottom as she could. It was an awkward move that almost knocked her on her ass. But it didn't and in moments Newberry had found her balance. She began swishing the dress back and forth like some sort of non-kicking can-can dancer. Each swish displaying her legs.

Legs? thought Mallory. Newberry didn't have legs. The woman was a shrimp. And yet his eyes were contradicting his thoughts. Newberry's legs were growing. What was once pale, short, and stubby was transforming with each swish into gams that were tanned, long, and pillar-like.

The dress was changing as well. Its color slowly went from nighttime black to hot pink. Its length shortened as Newberry's legs continued to lengthen.

Mallory was going to question Newberry's black long dress becoming a hot pink miniskirt but decided against it. He figured Newberry would probably just ignore him like she did when he asked about her shoes. Also, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know the exact details of what was going on, anyway. So, he decided to just clam up and continue watching Newberry.

He saw her remove her sweater-top, stripping down until all she was wearing was an undershirt. It showed just how flat Newberry's chest was. No visible breast flesh at all, just protruding nipples. With her growing legs, Newberry had the makings of a supermodel-like body, but Mallory wasn't really into "stick-women". He liked his women to have curves. Breasts. Big breasts. Humongous breasts. Seeing Newberry's skinny chest just depressed him. He was visibly disappointed.

Newberry saw Mallory's disappointment and smiled. She knew what he wanted and knew she could give it to him. She arched her back, throwing her nonexistent chest forward. She closed her hands into tight little fists. She closed her eyes and began concentrating. She willed the magic to come.

The magic started with Newberry's nipples, expanding them to inch-long points. Her areolae were next, darkening and rising slightly off her chest. Mallory thought he saw these changes, but he wasn't sure. Newberry's undershirt, being stretched by her growing nipples and slowly drenched by rivulets of sweat running down her body, was becoming more and more transparent and yet it still left a lot to the imagination. To Mallory, it was like some sort of now-you-see-them-now-you-don't routine was going on.

Newberry saw Mallory's eyes fixated on her chest. He seemed incapable of looking anywhere else. His eyes - the windows of the soul - were open to her chest growing and nothing else. It was a sensation made tangible. So strong was Mallory's hope and desire that Newberry could actually feel it. Embrace it. Use it.

All that she was able to offer and all that Mallory was able to offer, she willed to her breasts. Compacting. Expanding. Pushing upward and outward. She left no part of her breasts untouched. And the results were magnificent.

Mallory saw the nipples being elevated. Slowly. The inch-long points being supported by twin mounds of accumulating flesh. Getting fuller, firmer, and rounder with each second of Mallory's attention.

He noted Newberry's undershirt and began counting down to the moment of its destruction. An inevitable outcome since the garment was engaged in a battle it couldn't win. A game of mercy. Ordinary undershirt vs Newberry's ever-increasing breast flesh. The stakes: none worth noting. The odds: all in favor of the breast flesh. The result: undershirt ripped to shreds.

Mallory mentally ran the instant replay. Mounds of flesh overrunning the sides of the undershirt. Freeze-frame. Cut to the fibers of the undershirt being stretched beyond repair. Highlight those twin point men, the nipples, leading the charge. Close-up on Newberry's face - a picture of intense, focused concentration. And in slo-mo, the battle concludes with undershirt being ripped in two by Newberry's massive breasts. Fade to black, returning Mallory to his normal everyday thinking.

Mallory was still fixated on Newberry's chest. Make that breasts since he could no longer even see her chest. He couldn't see much of her newly-grown legs or arms either. All he could see was her breasts. Wide enough that no matter what angle, excluding possibly the rear, he approached her from he would run into breast flesh. Long enough that one could count about 60 Mississippis between when they first glimpsed Newberry's breasts and when the rest of her entered the room (that's assuming, of course, the doors were wide enough for her to enter in the first place). Cleavage so deep that an infant spelunker could spend days exploring its depths. Newberry somehow managed to make her breasts shake without killing herself or losing her balance and Mallory swore he felt a miniature shock wave hit him. Incredible.

"So, what do you think?" Newberry said in a very un-Newberryish voice. This voice was sultry, sexy, and sensual. It reminded Mallory of Lola's voice only better. Whereas Lola's voice drove Mallory close to having an orgasm, Newberry's voice actually made one happen. Thus answering her question without Mallory saying a word.

Newberry saw the resulting wetspot in the crotch of Mallory's pants and knew her display of her special talent - transforming her body - was a success. She knew just transforming her breasts would've been sufficient. But she had come this far and still had a transformation or two left inside her.

She started with her window-pane glasses. She removed them with a dramatic flourish and instantly had the face of a fashion mag's covergirl. Her flawless skin, plastic surgeon perfect features, and hypnotic eyes caused Mallory to have another orgasm.

Newberry licking her lips - thick, full, permanently and beautifully colored red - smiled a radiant display of white, perfectly formed teeth. She was preparing for her last transformation - her hair.

Newberry ran a hand through her bun of gray. She extracted a comb of an ancient design. Throwing the comb to an out-of-the-way section of the office into the corner she started shaking her head side-to-side. A process that didn't make sense to Mallory until he noticed that each shake caused Newberry's hair to grow in length and lighten in color. Once she stopped shaking her head, what was once a mess of gray shaped in the harshest, most severe bun known to man was replaced by a golden mane of hair that ran down her back.

Newberry's transformation was complete.

"Come to Agnes," she said to Mallory, a perfectly manicured and painted nail indicating her wishes.

Mallory did what his new secretary commanded. Instantly.

Nathaniel Higgins, high-ranking personnel officer and arch-nemesis of Thomas Mallory, was walking towards Mallory's office. His agenda was to torture Mallory - make the man get on his knees and beg him to send him some desirable secretaries. He hadn't decided if he would let Mallory's begging sway him; nor had he decided on what bribery - cars, money, and/or real estate - would be worth his consideration.

It didn't matter, he thought. I have nothing to lose and nothing but Mallory's suffering to gain.

As Higgins got closer to Mallory's office he heard a sound he was quite familiar with emanating from the closed door. It was the sound of sex.

"Impossible," Higgins muttered under his breath. "Mallory had a full day's worth of interviewing today. I sent the last applicant to him myself. Unless..."

Higgins' mind visualized Agnes Newberry. The funeral-like wardrobe. The gray hair. The window-pane glasses. The two-year old voice. Mallory wouldn't fuck her if she was the last woman on earth, he thought with absolute certainty. But then he heard Mallory's voice yelling out a name.

"Agnes!"

Higgins had to hear the name repeated several more times before he would let himself believe the truth. Thomas Mallory was fucking Agnes Newberry. It was a joke. No, it was a tragedy. And Higgins started to blame himself. He had crossed the line. He messed with another man's secretary and - and drove him to fucking Agnes Newberry.

Well that was it! The end of his and Mallory's rivalry. Winning was one thing, but fucking Agnes Newberry was another. No, he was done torturing Mallory - the man had suffered enough. Starting tomorrow, he would start sending Mallory the proper secretarial candidates. He would send him the big-titted bimbos, the sluts one couldn't help sexually harassing, and the blow-job dispensing interns. Mallory would take a look at these new secretarial candidates and drop Newberry in a second. He'd be crazy not to.

Thomas Mallory is considered crazy by his employers. An attitude that has nothing to due with his job performance. Mallory does above-level work and is still on the fast-track to upper-management. No, his business partners consider him crazy, because for some inexplicable reason, Mallory refuses to give-up his short, gray-haired, window-pane for glasses wearing, black-on-black-on-gray dressing secretary, Agnes Newberry.

To make matters worse, recent rumors have Mallory proposing marriage to his secretary.

Now how crazy is that?

...The End