Just a short fantasy...
The other girls in the office don't see what I see. You know the ones I mean, the young women who still call themselves secretaries as opposed to personal or executive assistants. The ones who want to work for the young, handsome executives or the dashing, successful older ones. The ones who dress in the clingy blouses and tight little pencil skirts. The ones who want the younger ones are looking for boyfriends or husbands. The ones who want the older ones want to become little pieces on the side, kept women whose bills get paid by virtue of their ability to make old men feel young again without pharmaceutical assistance.
They don't understand how happy I am to be working for you. To them, all they see is someone in middle management. Someone nearing middle age but without the company Cadillac or vacation house down the shore to show for it. Someone with grey hair and a little too much of a midsection. Someone who isn't a sugar daddy or the kind of husband you can brag about to sorority sisters.
That's because they don't get it. I don't want a new necklace and I don't want to start planning a wedding. I just want to get fucked. And I want to get fucked by you.
I didn't even understand it myself at first. I remember on my first day here, being all shy and nervous. I needed the job and didn't want to screw things up. People all seemed friendly at first, then I got introduced to you. You'd barely gotten done shaking my hand that you grumbled about having to waste time getting me up to speed and how you needed me to "hit the ground running". I didn't even understand it that night as I lay in bed, my hands under the waistband of my panties. I fucked myself for hours that night, until I was sore and raw and my sheets were soaked through.
I didn't really understand it until later that week. You looked constantly angry. Everything you said was always joined by some annoyed or exasperated remark. Anger at the "bootlickers" who'd been promoted ahead of you or the "morons" you supervised. Little remarks about how they don't pay you enough or how under appreciated you are. About how your wife and daughters were giving you hell. Finally, after one shouting match on the phone, I remember hearing you say the words that helped me put the heat I felt into words.
"One of these days," you said, "I'm just going to explode."
I remember you saying those words and my mouth going dry and my panties getting soaked. One of these days all of your frustrations, the ones that had been building for 25 years at this job and 23 years of marriage, were going to bubble up and over. And I wanted to be the one you lost control around. The one that you lost your composure with. I wanted every little drop of resentment you'd ever felt as you climbed the corporate ladder, every little bit of energy you saved when you swallowed your tongue instead of telling your wife to fuck off, the rage at every incompetent employee or slow bank teller or speeding ticket. I wanted it all to just rush out of you as you used my body. To have all that accumulated tension channelled into your cock and pounded into my dripping pussy. To be a sort of human stress ball that just absorbed all of it when you, after fucking me with a savage intensity and roughness, blew a huge load of hot, sticky cum into the very depths of my cunt.
I'd cum, you know. You wouldn't notice or care but with my skirt hiked up, panties yanked to one side and bent over your desk I'd cum screaming as you fucked me. Cumming for me, well, it's a mental thing. And this fantasy has me more excited than any charming smile from a pretty boy ever has. I used to be like other girls, you know, I'd go to the movies or the beach and see a great looking guy with a well toned body and that would be in my fantasies for a while. But that's gone now. Now in my mind's eye I'm being angrily fucked by a middle aged man and my fingers are bringing me off faster and more often than ever before.
I can hear it, you know, the frustration in your voice. I hear it when you buzz me and say, in that gruff demanding voice, "Tara, get in here". I can really hear it when you have no use for familiarities and say "Ms. Devereaux, get in here now". I can feel myself get wet when you say that, feel it drip to my thighs as I walk into your office to take notes or be sent on an errand. Every time I hope you look at me with naked lust and let me know that the reason you called me in was so I could get on my knees and open my mouth wide as you stuff every inch of your cock into my throat but, no, so far it's just the usual stuff.
It's not like I'm the first one who's noticed this either. The way you chew out your subordinates is legendary. They're terrified of you. I've heard it, you know, one of them screws up in even some minor way. Ranting and raving about their incompetence and their stupidity at the top of your voice. I've seen men leave your office looking shell-shocked and women on the verge of tears. I try not to catch their eyes, though. I'm too busy doing my best to not leave a wet spot on my chair.
I've never made an error like that but I picture it. I picture getting an important date or name wrong and you just absolutely losing it with me. Yelling at me all the things you yell at them. Only when I picture it I'm naked, my hands bound behind my back with your necktie and my wet panties stuffed into my mouth. Your heavy cock is inside of me, spearing me again and again until, you say, I'll learn.
I know you've noticed me. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm blonde, by all accounts pleasing to the eye and young enough to be your daughter. Most men can and do look. I know you think I haven't caught it but every now and then I catch you looking at me before you avert your eyes, probably afraid of a sexual harassment lawsuit. If you only knew. I've done my best to encourage it. Nothing indecent. My hemlines are a little higher maybe, my sweaters and blouses hug the curves of my breasts a little tighter. And underneath, well, every day it might be the day, right? So I'm sure you'd understand that on that fateful day when you do tear my clothes off of me you'll find a slinky little thong or a black lace set. Somedays I think about just going without but...well, I'll save that. I like to imagine that I'll have plenty of time to sit at my desk without my panties, my hair dishevelled, my sweater slightly torn, a fresh batch of your hot cum leaking out of me.
But you noticing me raises an interesting question. I've cum thinking about you, have you cum thinking about me? Has that wife of yours gotten a particularly energetic fucking of late as you pictured it was me your dick was pounding into? I bet she has, the lucky cow. I've talked to her on the phone. She sounds like a bit of a cold fish. The type that just lies there and maybe gives you a half-hearted blow job on your birthday. If I was in that bed and you told me you wanted me to fuck you I'd slam my cunt up and down your cock until I passed out from exhaustion.
And with the frustration you carry, I know she doesn't fuck you enough. I bet a lot of nights it's a dark room, internet porn and your own hand. It's such a waste. It could be me, on my knees, looking up at you with my big brown eyes as my lips lock around first one ball, then the other, before sucking your cock into my mouth. Not stopping until you were to ready to explode and then letting you just burst onto my face, covering me with every drop you'd been saving up. Feeling it splash against my skin before I greedily scoop it into my mouth.
I could do that all the time. Wouldn't you like that? Instead of glowering through those conference calls I could be under your desk, looking every bit the immaculate professional woman except for my lips stretched obscenely around the head of your cock as I jacked you off into my mouth. And when you were done you could just send me back out, to sit at my desk with the taste of your semen still on my tongue. You could call me in like that three, four times a day and every time I'd be hungry for more.
But you know when you get the angriest? When I see you almost burst and I get the closest to believing the day may come? When your daughters call. You've got two. The older one is getting married and the younger one just graduated college. Each time after one of them calls you tell me to get your banker on the phone. I know it's because you're paying for the one's wedding and you're paying the other one's rent. I know the younger one calls you up to beg her daddy for more of an allowance while the younger one whines and cries about having the perfect wedding no matter how much it costs.
You could definitely work out those frustrations with me. I know I even look a little bit like them. I'm right in between their ages and they're blondes with tight little bodies like me. I'd be happy to call you daddy and beg for more. I'd just be doing it with your cock buried deep in my ass and I'd be begging you to make sure every drop of your cum gets blasted into my tight little asshole. Or I could dress up like a bride for you. After all, you're paying for things. Shouldn't you be the one who gets to yank up that pristine white dress, rip off my bridal panties and be the first man to blast a huge load of sperm into my unprotected pussy? I think so. In fact, I'd insist on it.
It just makes me sad. You look like you could use a dirty little fuck toy. You've got a perfect one right outside your office if you'd just use me for what I was built for. I want it so badly, sir. I fuck myself thinking about it but my fingers are no substitute for a thick, hard cock just slamming into me harder and harder until I just can't take it anymore. Please sir, I'd be such a dedicated little whore. Won't you please give me what I need?