The Boss of You Ch. 03

Three weeks have passed like hunting hawks in flight. We haven't stopped to talk about what we're doing, only acted on what we both probably fear is a doomed relationship but both of us too excited to stop it before it goes too far. Stolen moments, fleeting glances, and knowing looks that are probably held way too long are all that we can share at work. It's not proper for a boss to be fooling with his administrative assistant.

I must be horribly old fashioned because in my brain, I keep starting to say, "secretary." You've corrected me more than once; in fact, you've put me in my place in front of the two warehouse drones and that battleaxe of a part time "assistant" that corporate saddled us with. They all are probably losing respect for me as their boss, but I don't give a shit. Corporate has written off our branch as dead weight and the only thing that keeps us in our jobs is their greedy desire to keep at least some of the parts flowing to old customers since that might actually pay the expenses on the building that they built at the height of the real estate boom and now have hanging around the figurative neck of their balance sheet like an albatross. In fact, if we were better at marketing, our huge inventory would probably be moving faster, selling down to a more manageable level, and making our jobs more and more superfluous until the day they send a liquidator in to assess our remaining inventory and blow it out the door at a rock bottom price right after letting the five of us go.

But for now, I'm feeling proud of myself in a completely selfish way. I feel that through careful management of the flow of parts, I am delaying our sell-down and putting off that inevitable day when they say, "That's it. You folks can go home. We might pay you through the end of the year, but get your personal things and turn in the keys. We're closing this branch."

Why "selfish," you wonder? Do you really have to ask? Because the only reason I'm not online all day pimping my resume is that while I'm employed here, I have a relationship going with my lovely assistant who I'm secretly dating after work and really secretly boinking while I'm AT work. I don't really know how to search for that kind of job on Monster.com since I think banging the help is frowned upon in other, more successful companies. I may be wrong. I don't know.

And every day when those two doofuses from the warehouse head down the road for their "lunch break" to sit at the end of the international airport's runway, watch planes land, and smoke joints, you and I are playing. The admin sent in by corporate is never here at lunch time so it's only us and we make good use of that time. And every day that I don't seem to "notice" that the two stoners are coming back later and later, it also means that I have more and more time to touch, tickle, fondle, feel, kiss, caress, tease, and please Miss Dressing Too Sexy For Work.

Today, you've got that skirt on that makes all the others look even shorter. Good Lord, those legs of yours do wonders for you. What they do to me however, is wholly unfair. If I hadn't bought you those shoes and that skirt, I would wonder if you were trying to give me some sort of heart condition. But since I purchased the entire outfit, I am well aware of the effect that the ensemble is meant to have on me. I wonder if you have followed the caveat that I laid down for when you wear it.

Doofus One and Doofus Two are finally gone. Battleaxe is nowhere to be found; most likely she's writing a report to corporate about the non-necessity of transferring any of us to the St. Louis home office. Or maybe she's planning her next transfer where she will surely spy on another mid level manager and report what she sees until that guy too gets laid off or fired in shame for doing dirty, dirty things to his willing secretary.

Dammit, Administrative Assistant. Says so right there on your business card.

Your back is to my office door as usual. But through the windows, I can watch your cascading black hair fall about your shoulders, see your dusky skin as you shuffle papers around your desk, and once in a while I can see your lips while you're talking to customers on the phone. Those lips. The things that you've done with them since that first day when we stopped talking and started acting would convince anyone at corporate to keep you on in whatever capacity you wanted.

"Dear Mid Level Management Drone,

Please make arrangements to sell off all remaining inventory including office equipment and fixtures. Pay the final month's rent and utilities before closing the building. Send all outstanding purchase orders via courier to corporate office. Remit all sensitive documents to headquarters. Dismiss remaining employees with usual severance pay, except for Sarah. She is to report to the Executive Suites in St. Louis immediately to assume her new position.

Fuck you and have a shitty life, Your Asshole Boss

P.S. Drink bleach."

Whatever. We're alone and I know you're waiting for me to take charge and start today's lunch hour fun time. I'll worry about stabbing my boss in the eye with a dull spoon at a later time. All of those dreary thoughts go right out of my mind when I watch you, when I remember what we've done in the last couple of weeks. And, my God, I must have you again before the relentless feeling in my brain causes me to go nuts.

"Sarah," I speak into the intercom and you jump, startled. I know you're making fun of me in your mind since if I'd merely raised my voice, you would have been able to hear me through the glass windows of my office and the closed door.

You punch the button and say, "Yeah?" as if to say, "Really? We're going to be this formal now?"

"I have a task for you, Sarah." With pride, I notice that you immediately sit up straighter in your chair, back straight, motionless, waiting to hear the rest of my request. This is something you've learned in the last couple of weeks. That as we've played our game of "Yeah, I am the Boss of You," your signal that it's time to begin has been for me to call your end of it a "task." At work, we talk about the job, the workload, and the duties. When I say "task" we both know that one or both of us is going to end up naked, sweating, and sated soon. Your motion is something I've carefully nurtured in you, knowing that with subtle hints I could bring about in you a desired physical reaction as if you were submitting to me without even realizing that you had done it.

And now that I have your attention, I am ready to get my daily dose of you doing my bidding.

"Sarah, are you wearing underwear?" My voice through the intercom is loud in that outer office. So loud that if anyone else was in these offices, they would hear clearly my shattering of at least five "employee interaction standards." You are probably blushing at the question; not because it's embarrassing for me to ask but because you're almost afraid that someone will hear. I've certainly asked about the status of your undergarments before. I've asked what they were, what color they were, what their current state of "humidity" was, and directed you in when I wanted them left behind. But at work, I'm sure you're cringing a little. But interested in where this might go and remembering the ways in which we've enjoyed each other in the last couple of weeks, you do not answer except to shake your head in the negative.

"I want you to lift your skirt. I want you to play with yourself. I want you to do it right there at your desk. I want you to do what I tell you when I tell you. I want you to continue to face away from me. I want you to listen carefully. I want you to cum. I want you."

Dutifully, I can see the motions of your elegant hands in your lap as you lift the hem to allow yourself access to your sex. And I know that those manicured fingers are touching, probing, and stimulating something that I've grown to consider mine. As my instructions grow more detailed and more demanding of further acts of stimulation and intrusion to your center, you work vigorously to meet my demands. I can see your arms moving, know that you are getting excited and wet, and know that soon, you will be on a hair trigger waiting for me to make the demand that will set you off and have you gasping to catch your breath. Your head begins to lull back, your mouth open in a small "O" as it does when you're excited, and your eyes close as you near your release.

I am pulling strings as if you are my personal marionette. You are performing solely for my enjoyment and I am drunk with the power I feel from this act. Sure, you will get to have your orgasm, but I am the one with the heady feeling of control over such a lovely creature as you. Beautiful, and until a couple of weeks ago, so innocent--naive even--you are now mine, to do with as I want in every sense of the word.

Powerful word; want. I told you what I want. Just as I continue to hoarsely make demands of what I desire as you frantically masturbate yourself at my direction in the outer office. I want you to feel that slight fear, that pang, that someone might come back early; that "she" might walk in to tell us we're all fired. That you might get caught with your fingers in your pussy, so close to orgasm that you might not be able to stop if you did get caught. I want that feeling of desperation from you. I want you so ready to let it go that all I have to do is ask for it. But want works both ways. You want to hear my voice. You want my command, my direction, my guidance. You've told me that you crave it. You want my control over your sex life. You want me to tell you if and when you may orgasm. You want me to deny you if I see fit. And you want me to demand it of you if I want it too.

Your motions outside my office are quick, repetitive, and quickening. I know from past experience that you are close. And you are probably in danger of giving up and letting it happen. So I press the intercom button one last time and say, "Sarah....?"

Without waiting for an answer that might interrupt the fantastic voyage your brain is on, I continue. Finally, permission is granted. In fact, the act is demanded.

"I want you to cum. Cum for me now, Sarah."

And outside my office door, as I watch excitedly, all hell breaks loose as you allow it wash over you and consume you.