CHAPTER ONE
At 4.30 pm. on Friday
afternoon, Sylvia Lorel arose from her desk, fluffed
up her hair, smoothed her skirts and took the main folder into her boss.
Mr. O.K. Kaye glanced up when she entered and
smiled. “Letters to
sign? Good. Let’s have them.”
She pranced smartly
across his office and around his side of the desk. She trod delicately on the extra high-heeled
shoes she’d put on that morning. Her
short pleated skirt twitched saucily.
He cleared a space on
his desk and she set the down the folder.
“Time races,” he told
her as he reached for his pen. “I didn’t
realise it was so late.”
She stopped, her
breast almost nudging his cheek as she opened the folder at the first
letter. He read and then scribbled his
signature. At the same time his free
hand slid smoothly up under her skirt.
Sylvia caught her breath.
She’d come to Mr. Kaye nine months ago when his personal secretary
married. He was a good boss with an infectious
cheerfulness and a charming personality.
On her very first day he’d made a pass.
She’d expected it; but not quite so soon. As he’d signed the first letter his free hand
had slipped around her waist and his fingers had rested lightly upon her hips. The gesture was so natural and friendly it
would have been prudish to slap his hand away.
As she’d turned up the next letter for signature she’d prepared to put
him in his place when he made his next move.
But he made none. His fingers did
not stray. And when the letters had been
signed he’d looked up at her with his engaging smile and said cheerfully: “That’s all for today, Sylvia. You can finish now if you like.” She’d left his office half-persuaded his
caress had been inspired by his warm nature and that she’d come close to making
a fool of herself.
Every time he’d
signed letters that first week his finger had rested lightly upon her hip, a
warm, slightly possessive gesture that made her feel she was one of the office
family. It wasn’t until the second week
that the companionable hand rested a little lower down. Each day it was fractionally lower until by
the end of the third week it rested squarely upon her buttock. It was then he massaged gently as he signed
letters. She’d realised then that this
was the pass she should spurn. But it
seemed so absurd. All week she’d
accepted his hand upon her haunch. It
was ridiculous to object because his fingers had now merely kneaded
gently. She wasn’t a prude, and he’d
been careful not to offend her dignity.
And his strong fingers moving rhythmically upon her buttocks were quite
pleasant. Without thinking she’d flexed
her thigh muscles in response to his kneading.
He’d been more
patient than she’d thought possible. It
was another month before his hand had kneaded her buttocks under her skirt
instead of outside it. By then, the
action was a warm sociable intimacy and a regular feature of office
routine. She’d stopped beside him with
her breast nudging his cheek, while he signed his letters and caressed her
bottom. He never spoke of the caress and
in all other respects their relationship was quite formal.
But since then eight
months had elapsed.
This Friday, when
Sylvia placed the letters upon his desk, she braced her legs apart and caught
her breath in anticipation.
His hand slid in
naturally between her legs and his fingers were feather-soft as they whispered
up her inner thighs and travelled straight to the target. The base of his thumb nestled cosily within
her crevice, pressing firmly and rolling slightly from side to side to burrow
more deeply. She writhed
her loins accommodatingly, settling upon his hand until despite her panties,
her love-lips parted and pleasingly straddled his hand. He scribbled his signature,
she whipped away the letter and confronted him with the next. His blue eyes raced over it and his hand
see-sawed teasingly. It was very
pleasant and she circled her hips, bearing down, to make her sensations
sweeter.
“Make a note,
Sylvia. If this man Bodkin doesn’t pay
within a week, I’ll write him a scorcher!”
She made a note. “He never does pay until we write a strong
letter.”
“Well, that’s
business, old girl.” He glanced up, his
cheek brushing her breast. “I expect
we’ve got a similar reputation with some firms.”
His see-sawing hand
was delicious. He used a rhythm that was
deeply stirring. Sometimes, when he had
a lot of letters to sign, she left his office quite breathless. And when she was in the mood, as she was
today, her thoughts were daring. What
would it be like if ...! But he was married; he wouldn’t start an
affair. But he obviously liked her. Was this as far as he dared to go? Did he need encouragement! But how? He already knew his advances weren’t
discouraged. His see-sawing hand
faltered slightly and failed to press upon the exact spot with the right
rhythm; she bore down on his hand just in time to correct its movement. Then she flexed her knees, taking more weight
upon her toes. She loved his warm,
stroking hand and the tingling pleasure it sent through her. Her nipples were so taut that they were
almost painful. But a
nice pain. They thrust hardness
against her blouse and she hoped he’d notice.
Perhaps, when he glanced up and saw them ... she’d love him to kiss her
breasts. But it would be difficult in
the office. Yet if she didn’t wear a bra
and wore a button blouse ...?
“I hope I haven’t
up-quoted Bradley too heavily,” he commented as he signed. “I don’t want to lose his business.”
“We’ve quoted only
two percent higher than last year,” she pointed
out. “Since then prices have soared.”
“I hope you’re right,
old girl.”
It was dreamy having
him work her up. She was sticky inside
and really in the mood today. If this
went on much longer she’d wet her knickers.
And it was going on! He was
re-reading a letter and thinking about it.
“All right,” he said
finally, as though he’d been consulting her.
“We’ll send the letter anyway and see what happens.”
“Very well,” she said
faintly.
He looked up quickly,
suddenly remembering, his cheek brushing against her hardened nipple but not
noticing it. “It’s Friday! Conference day! You’d better remind the boys!”
“Will they need
reminding?” she asked faintly.
“We’d better make
sure.”
“Very well.” There was a
telephone on the desk in front of her.
Her cheeks burned as she lifted the receiver. “Mr. Glock’s office,” she told the switchboard girl and as the
caressing hand moved with increased subtlety she wondered if the switchboard
girl would ever guess!
“Mr.
Glock,” she said crisply, “this is to remind you
about the five-thirty conference in Mr. Kaye’s
office.”
“I hadn’t forgotten,”
barked Harold Glock, and hung up. He was always irritable when interrupted.
She made four
calls. Tom Blake was the last. As usual, he sounded lost and distracted. “What’s the time now, then? I mean ... I’m in the middle of this job
now.”
“It’s five minutes to
five.” She realised twenty-five minutes
had flashed past, flexed her knees lightly and raised
up higher on the balls of her toes.
She’d have been off balance if the hot hand between her legs had not
given her support. “You’ve more than
half an hour,” she told Tom Blake. She
replaced the receiver and dreamily closed her eyes. The pleasure was almost unbearable. Her panties were a crumpled wisp of
stickiness.
“Remind me to write
Goodwin on Monday.” She made the note in
a dream. If he realised how close she
was to a climax!
He signed the last
letter. She closed the folder and
gathered it up. The rhythmic friction of
his hand was slippery delight.
“Anything else, Mr. Kaye?”
“That’s the lot,
Sylvia. Gather the boys together and
usher them in when it’s time.”
“Very good. Have a nice
weekend, Mr. Kaye.”
“You too, Sylvia. Enjoy
yourself.”
It was all so
pleasantly formal; the secretary and her Boss.
As though neither knew his hand was up under her skirt and rubbing away
until her knees were trembly. The next move was hers. The Boss had dismissed his secretary. But his hand stayed where it was. She had to make the effort, turn away and walk
around his desk as though she didn’t know the back of her skirt lifted high
when it was drawn over his hand. The
door seemed a million miles away. She
walked to it carefully, certain his eyes were riveted upon her, but determined
not to betray her discomfort. Although
it wasn’t discomfort yet, because to the stickiness was still hot. It was only when opening the door that the
stickiness cooled. She flashed him a
quick glance; but as always, his head was bowed as he scribbled industrially.
She dropped the
letter folder on her desk, snatched up her handbag and stepped out into the
corridor. As she walked towards the
Ladies the stickiness turned to ice-cold discomfort. She mastered an impulse to waddle as though
she’d wet her pants. But the discomfort
lasted only a few seconds, she consoled herself as she bolted herself in a
cubicle and hung up her handbag. She
raised the hem of her skirt and tucked it inside its waistband. She was still excited. He’d really got her going. It wasn’t merely that he’d been at it longer
than usual; it was so exciting having him do it while
she spoke to me on the telephone. She
always finished up a little sticky, but rarely like this. She eased down her knickers and leaned
against the wall while she raised on foot, and then
the other, passing the garment over her high-heels. She examined it and tingled. The gusset was coated with glistening
love-juice. Well, it wasn’t
surprising. She was in the mood and he’d
put her even more in the mood. She
braced her shoulders against the wall, parted her legs wide and delicately
wiped between them with her panties. Her
aroused desires hadn’t cooled and fingering this sensitive area re-aroused her
strongly. She glanced at her
wrist-watch. She’d have to be
quick. Very quick! But she was on the boil already. She closed her eyes and stroked herself,
teasing the ultra-sensitive spots. She
stroked lovingly and realised at the same time that what she really wanted was
hot skin touching hot skin, without the frustration of undies. Perhaps she was too reserved. Perhaps he was longing for the day she took
in his letters without wearing knickers.
But could he expect it? Knickerless, she wouldn’t dare sit down while anyone was in
the office. But it would be nice to bend
over his desk and feel his hand slide up between her legs and go straight to
it, without resistance. His fingers
could play, stroke, caress and fondle, inside and outside. She imagined it vividly and frictioned vigorously.
She was panting and the muscles of her loins jerked spasmodically. She was almost there! She visualised his hand under her skirt,
stroking beautifully, while he ripped open his flies. She couldn’t see it because her back was towards him, but she sensed him jerk it
out. Then the hot fierceness probed
between her buttocks with a hot, slippery thrusting. She whimpered because he wouldn’t be in time;
because before the thrusting was deep enough she was gripped by powerful,
body-shaking spasms.
It was some minutes
before her heart ceased pounding. She
opened her eyes. Her head swam, that
really had been one and all her own work.
Now she really was sticky. She
wrapped her panties around her fingers and wiped carefully. She certainly was in the mood. She was drooling like a wildcat and it was
running down her thighs too. But time
was speeding by. She wiped herself dry,
wadded up her panties and stuffed them in her handbag. She shook down her skirt, stepped out of the
cubicle and inspected herself in the mirror.
She was delightfully flushed and her eyes were melting. Her knees were weak too, but she couldn’t
loiter.
Tucking her bag under
her arm and with her head held arrogantly high, she marched back along the
corridor, high heels rapping crisply.