The Submissive Temp Ch. 01

This is the first chapter of a story with ten chapters. I've decided all ten chapters will be in the Mature category, since our heroine Sally likes older men. I hope that you like it!

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There's a Starbucks at Astor Place in downtown New York. The coffee is standard Starbucks coffee, and nothing to write home about. What's great about it for me, though, is that it has stools in the window. When you sit on one of those stools you're facing the world as it goes by. The world also faces you.

It's a great location to people watch. It's in NYU's bailiwick, and also it's close to Cooper Union. Not far away is the New School for Social Research, and Parson's, and even Cardozo Law School. All the students and professors walking around make for some excellent people viewing. It's also right at the edge of the East Village, and that's a neighborhood for young and trendy people. The result is that it's always interesting to sit and look out when at the Astor Place Starbucks.

The floor of Starbucks is raised and higher than the level of the sidewalk outside. The windows are floor to ceiling, and the stools are high. Consequently, I never sat on the stools unless I was wearing pants, of course. If you wear a short skirt, and all of my skirts are miniskirts, well, men on the sidewalk immediately on the other side of the windows might try to look up your skirt.

If you sit in the center seats, then you face the stairs to the subway through the floor to ceiling windows, and when a train arrives dozens to hundreds of people climb up those stairs, right in front of you as you sip your coffee with a splash of milk. Your legs face them and if your legs are not tightly closed then your crotch faces them! Trains arrive every three to six minutes.

I love sitting on those stools. The variety of people emerging from the subway is a cross section of humanity. People in all their different manifestations, with every woman trying to look pretty and emphasizing whatever is good about her body, to the wide variety of hairstyles, to the men climbing up the stairs staring at the buttocks of the woman in front of them, or hoping to look up their skirt climbing slowly several stairs below them. All is there for me to see and to watch!

One day I was in the subway coming down to Astor Place from way uptown where I had been visiting my doctor. I was wearing a tight V-neck sweater and a miniskirt. My sweater revealed some of my ample cleavage made special by my fabulous pushup bra. I have boobs that have natural cleavage. They don't need enhancement with a pushup bra. When you add a pushup bra to breasts like mine, however, well the effect can be startling to some men; to most men, actually.

Anyway, I was nervously jiggling a leg as I sat in a crowded train, anxiously waiting for it to leave the station. It was taking longer than usual to close the doors. I hate that. It was not intentional, but my jiggling leg attracted attention. I have nice legs to complement my excellent boobs. I guess I presented quite a site to the lecherous men standing close to me. This put me in a mood.

I exited the train at Astor Place, since my apartment is closest to that stop, even if it is a bit of a walk, deep into the East Village. I climbed the stairs and looked at the stools in the Starbucks window. A woman in the perfect spot I always covet looked as if she were getting ready to leave. What luck! If I moved fast I could get her spot with the best possible view of the passing world. The problem was that I was not wearing pants, but was clad in a tight miniskirt.

I was feeling randy, though, from all the men checking me out in the subway train, so I decided to break my rule. I quickly grabbed the seat, placing a shopping bag on it to reserve it, then went to get a coffee and a sweet roll. I returned to my seat, putting the shopping bag on the floor next to me and I got settled on the stool.

I must have sat there an hour or more watching the passing scene. I noticed quite a few men outside the window checking out my vast expanse of bare leg as they passed in front of me. The Starbucks floor was raised a bit higher than the sidewalk, so for those of us sitting in the window, we decadent coffee addicts, and in particular our legs, were very much on display. Right then my legs were one of New York's minor tourist attractions, or so it seemed to me.

This of course made me even more randy. About half of the men walking past glanced at my legs. About half of the half who checked me out slowed their pace to get a more thorough look. A few men lingered, boldly and unashamedly staring at my legs on display. I guess they felt they could shamelessly stare at my legs because they were outside, and I was inside. I'm not sure why that made it okay, but somehow it did, both in their minds and in mine.

I thought about it. My knees could part just a little. Casual like, as if I had lost my concentration, you know. It would be a great tease. Nobody could see all the way up to my panties but some of the men sure tried! Maybe in fact they did? I have thin thighs, so even a little leg spread meant they were not touching each other.

Maybe their view did in fact extend to my crotch? I'd have to check in front of a mirror once I was home. One man walked by me four times, each time slowly to take a lingering gander, trying to see up as far as he could. It was fun. I wondered if I were getting wet? It was a distinct possibility. That would change my the color of my panties from lavender to a dark purple, but not uniformly. No, definitely the color would then be splotchy. Could the man tell? I wondered.

I told Dakota what I had done when we later met for dinner at a little Vietnamese place in the East Village. Dakota and I had been friends since middle school. Dakota is part Native American (The fraction is 1/32nd, and the Native American blood is well diluted, since she is a natural blonde and even has blue eyes! Still, her Mom is proud of their heritage and gave her the name Dakota because of it.)

Dakota was aghast at first at my recounting of my behavior, but slowly she came around. As we finished the bottle of Rose de Provence wine we had ordered, we were both giggling about my teasing antics.

"What does Mark think about it?" Dakota asked. Mark is my husband. I'm 23 and Mark is a ripe old man in his 30's. He's my guy: older and wiser. He's wise to the ways of the world.

"He doesn't know and of course he never will," I said. "It's just a wee bit of harmless fun."

"Are you still starting work tomorrow?" Dakota asked.

"Yes, the temp agency sent me the details today," I said. I have a job as a temp, filling in as a secretary, sometimes as an executive secretary, rarely in IT, and even as a nurse (I have a nursing degree), as needed. Companies use a lot of temps in New York and actually the pay is not bad. "I'm to be an executive secretary tomorrow, and for the next three months, with an option for renewal," I said.

"Executive, eh? I hope your boss is handsome," Dakota said.

"Dakota! I'm a married woman!" I exclaimed in mock outrage.

"I know, Sally. Don't get your panties in a knot. I was thinking of eye candy, not sex," my friend said.

"Well okay then. Eye candy is a nice idea. Thanks for the thought," I replied.

I then became serious. "Dakota, I'm worried," I said. She could doubtless see the worry in my eyes.

"You always do well at your Temp jobs, Sally. There's nothing to worry about," Dakota said.

"It's not my job, Dakota. I'm getting the same weird headaches I got before, those two times, you know," I said.

"The tingling?" Dakota said.

"Yes, it's kind of like an MSG headache after bad Chinese food, you know? Except it's not at my forehead but it's at the back of my head," I said.

"Tylenol? Aspirin? Advil? Motrin? Excedrin? Alleve?" Dakota offered, and I shook my poor head at every suggestion she made.

"I might as well take M&Ms," I said.

"Yeah, and they melt in your mouth, I hear," Dakota said.

We both giggled, but then I got serious. "You know what happened when I got the headaches before, right?"

"Yeah, I remember. You became an uncontrolled sex crazed slut, as I recall. It was senior year in high school and one year in college; freshman year?" Dakota offered.

I nodded.

"Now you have Mark. He loves sex. Focus on him, if - and it's a big if - you become sex crazed again," Dakota said.

"I just hope Mark is enough. If this is preliminary to one of those sex crazed six-month periods, Mark will have to be mainlining Viagra to keep up with me!" I said.

"Well, use Jack Reacher's advice," Dakota said. Seeing my blank face, Dakota explained, "He's the character from those Lee Child novels."

I still looked blank.

Dakota sighed at my pop culture ignorance, and she said, "Hope for the best; plan for the worst."

*********

I always wear the same outfit to my temp jobs. I wear a nice blouse with a choker of biwa pearls around my neck. My boobs stick out prominently but that's just biology and can't be helped. After all this is not the roaring twenties, and I'm not about to become a flapper and wear chest flatteners. With my blouse I wear one of my many miniskirts and leggings or pantyhose, or sometimes (when I'm feeling randy) butterscotch colored thigh highs.

This was my first day and on my first day I always wear standard issue pantyhose and pumps with a two-inch heel. With correct make-up I look professional, not too sexy, but still attractive. I gave my name at reception and was handed an envelope. I was to go to the 23rd floor (nice! I love the high floors in New York) and was to work for Mr. Criens himself! Criens was a legend in the hedge fund industry. I was going to be at the seat of intense power for the next three months. A shiver passed up my spine.

I showed up promptly at 8am but Mr. Criens had been at work since 6am and had a mountain of things for me to do. I am really efficient, an accomplished touch typist, know shorthand, and can deal with any kind of software you can throw at me, especially if it comes from Microsoft Office Suite. I can use the Statistics Software Packages R, S, and SAS, too. Criens had dictated seven letters into a machine. It's not on my CV, but I'm a pretty good hacker with computers, too.

Mr. Criens' English was appalling. In ten minutes I had typed up two parallel sets of letters for him.

"What's this?" he said. "You typed up the letters twice?"

"The set on your right is as you dictated them. The set on your left are the same letters but in proper English. Which set would you like?" I replied. I was taking a risk doing this but I did not care. If he fired me, the Temp Agency would just send me to someone else. I had an excellent reputation.

"You did all this in ten minutes?" Criens asked, incredulous. He was almost shouting, but in a good way.

I looked shyly at my feet. "Yes, sir," I said, sheepishly. He sounded angry, but shouting has that effect.

The room fell quiet as Criens read the two versions of his letters. He tossed the set of letters from his right into the circular file. I smiled inwardly to myself.

"Good job, Ms. Higgins. For your next task, there's a financial discrepancy. I gave you a one-day full clearance with the company computers. Take the office and figure out what's going on, can you do that? Della will give you the details." He gestured to an antechamber office that was almost part of his own office.

I noticed my desk chair faced his office. If he looked over at me and at the view under my desk, he could see my stockings clad legs. I kept my knees tightly together. I had some wicked thoughts about the stools at the Astor Place Starbucks, but I banished them from my mind.

Two hours later I emerged from the antechamber. Two hours of keeping one's knees touching is a little fatiguing, at least for me.

"Yes, uh, what's your name again?" Criens asked me.

"Sally, sir. Sally Higgins," I replied. I had kept my maiden name when I married.

"Okay, Ms. Higgins. What is it? You look like the cat that swallowed the canary," Criens said.

"I may have found the problem with the financial discrepancy, sir," I said, again looking at my feet.

"What? Already? Our experts have been working on it for the last four days!"

"Yes, sir. I believe someone named Sam Lee in the Operational Risk Department is embezzling. Sir," I said, knowing how dangerous it was to make such an accusation, and on my first day, too!

My Criens became serious. With a sober voice he asked me to show him. I ushered him into my tiny antechamber office and he pulled up a chair next to mine. We went through the trail I had found that led me straight and inexorably to Sam Lee. It was a circuitous route since Lee was no dummy and he had taken precautions to hide his trail.

The reason I found it so fast was that I assumed from the get-go that the discrepancy was a result of someone embezzling. I also assumed it was someone clever. Then I thought about how I would hide my embezzling were I to do such a thing. I got lucky: Sam Lee thought about it the same I way I did. That made it easy.

It took me over an hour to convince Criens. He really did not want to believe one of his highly trusted employees was embezzling. In the end however, he had no choice but to believe it. Besides the inevitable danger I was in by exposing a crime nobody wanted to believe but which was inescapable, I was in another sort of danger. It was a different kind of danger.

As we sat together going over my forensic accounting, Mr. Criens' leg touched mine. I pulled my leg away of course but his leg kept coming back and finding mine. I'm sure it was innocent touching, but it only heightened my already frayed nerves.

Criens was finally convinced. He rose from his chair. He was somber. He buzzed for Della and she came promptly to his office. "Get me Paul Hake, Della," he said.

Mr. Hake arrived within the next ten minutes. Criens gave him instructions sotto voce so that I would in theory not be able to hear, but nevertheless I could indeed hear. I don't know why, but I have what my father calls bionic hearing. Hake looked to me like a dangerous man. Then Mr. Criens called in the legal team. He told me to go to lunch. Della came to take me out to lunch, while Criens huddled with the lawyers.

"How was your morning, Sally? Did Mr. Criens treat you well?" she asked, once we had ordered some food and drink.

I told Della all that had happened.

"On your first day?" Della was a bit incredulous. "Mr. Criens has been trying to solve the financial discrepancy for over a week, and you sat down and did it in two hours?"

"I was lucky," I said sheepishly. I did not explain how I had in fact solved the problem. It was not luck. I probably missed my calling. I should have been a forensic detective.

"He's going to like you, my dear. You're young, sexy, and smart. That's his taste," Della said.

I said nothing. Was she trying to warn me? I didn't think Mr. Criens was like that. He was a straight arrow as far as I could tell. Still, I'd be careful. I'm a married woman, after all.

When we returned to the office Mr. Criens had some more letters for me to type. "Correct them as needed, too, please. Like you did this morning," he said.

Ten minutes later I gave the typed letters to Mr. Criens. They were all about the unfortunate man Sam Lee. One letter told him he was fired. Another said his benefits were stopped. A third was all about the legal issues regarding his embezzlement. I went to Mr. Criens' office to give him the letters.

When I handed the letters to Mr. Criens he held my hand a little too long. Well, different people have different styles. It did not necessarily mean anything. When I turned around to return to my antechamber his hand brushed my ass. I was sure it was accidental. Well, maybe I was not really sure. Had I been male, I seriously doubt my ass would have been brushed. It had been quite definitively brushed. I hope he liked the feel of it, I giggled silently to myself. Yes, it was like that.

I was nervous, though. I still had the tingling in my head, which I called a headache for lack of a better term, and in the past that had twice happened before I somehow became a sex crazed woman not long after the tingling headaches began. I did not want that to happen ever again!

How could I exist in the working world with my sexual desire going over the top crazy? And what about my marriage? I said a silent prayer that my headache be only that: A headache, and not an aura predictive of that horrific sexual need I had twice before experienced.

That night my husband (Mark Rivera) asked me how my first day at the new Temp job was. He always asked. Mark is a sweetheart. I told him my accomplishments and he was impressed and gave me a big kiss.

"There's something else," I said. I stopped talking.

"What else?" Mark finally asked when he realized I had stopped.

"My boss, Mr. Criens, kept touching me. The touches were harmless, but I felt it should not have happened," I said, hoping Mark would not be angry. Frankly I did not know how he would react.

"Mr. Criens? William Criens? THE William Criens? William Criens is your boss?!!?" Mark exclaimed. "The hedge fund guy William Criens?"

"Yes," I said sheepishly.

"Holy shit!" Mark exclaimed. "My little sweetheart of a wife is temping for the hedge fund genius of the decade? Amazing. Amazing. Amazing," he said.

"One amazing should suffice. It's not a big deal," I said.

"Not a big deal?!!?" Mark exclaimed in full blown incredulity.

"What about the touching?" I repeated.

"He's probably one of those touchy-feely guys. It's politically incorrect, I suppose, #MeToo and all that, but jeez, it's William Criens! Holy cow!" Mark exclaimed. He was quite excited. In his mind, I was having brushes with greatness. Mostly my ass was, I giggled silently to myself.

"So, you're okay with it?" I asked. "If you're not I'll ask the Temp Agency for another assignment."

Mark fell silent for a few minutes. "Oh, babe, this is so exciting. You have to do what you're comfortable with. Don't worry about me. Do whatever he wants you to do. So what if he gets a little fresh? I mean as long as you're okay with it, don't worry about me. I'll support you in whatever you decide. William Criens! Amazing."

"Well then, I'll stay working there for now, okay?" I asked.

"This is stunning. Wait until I tell the guys you're temping for Williams Criens himself! By the way, why does he need a temp?"

"His normal executive secretary is on pregnancy leave. There are ugly rumors that he's the father. Anyway, she's unmarried," I said.

"How do you know all that?" Mark asked.

"I became friends with his girl Friday. She's named Della. She's a font of information," I said.

"This was quite a first day!" Mark said.

"Yes. Yes, it was. Quite," I replied.

As the weeks went by, I had a few more rather important successes. Mr. Criens was getting more and more impressed with me. His hands got more and more familiar with me, too. My ass was now being openly fondled, and my hands and forearms touched with regularity.

I reported the inappropriate fondling to my husband Mark, but whenever I did he just dismissed it. "It's William Fucking Criens!" he would say. Indeed, that was always exactly what he would say. It was as if I were working for Robert De Niro, or Scarlett Johansson, or some other celebrity. Actually, for Mark, William Criens outshone any movie star.

I decided to do an experiment. On day 28 of my three month stint I wore a tight skirt that truly showed off my ass, and I coupled it with a low-cut blouse that in principle allowed a man to look right down it to see my cleavage. I wore a lace bra, too, for some interest if there were to be a down looker.