Chapter 45: Chapter 45

About four o’clock, I called Tess into my office and told her to close the door.

“Is that a new skirt?” I asked her.

She brightened. “Yes, Sir. Brand new. Do you like it?”

“Yes,” I said. “Lift it. I want to see what you’re wearing underneath.”

She looked at me shyly, her hands dropping to the hem of her skirt—but she did not obey. Her pale face went pink, working toward crimson.

“Is this really necessary, Sir?”

“Of course,” I told her. “Dress code. Remember?” “Yes, Sir, of course,” she said, toying with the hem of

her slate-gray, pleated skirt. “But you’ve never checked before, Sir.”

“Oh,” I smiled. “I’ve checked. You just didn’t know I was checking. Those little skirts you wear. You tend to forget how short they are. You bend over quite a lot for a secretary, don’t you?”

She stammered, “I don’t know, Sir.”

“One might think you were going out of your way to flash me.”

She shook her head nervously, her face reddening more deeply as her ample breasts heaved.

“No, Sir. I didn’t realize I was flashing you.”

“Uh-huh,” I said with obvious suspicion. “You just want me to know what color panties you’re wearing every single day, then?” Before she could stammer an answer, I chuckled. “Then again, it’s not like I haven’t encouraged you, Tess. Why do you think I keep all the client files on the bottom shelf? God forbid you should kneel to do the filing.”

“Kneeling bags my stockings,” said the blushing secretary. She glanced down shyly at her thighs; for the first time in weeks, the lacy tops of her nude-color stock- ings weren’t visible. I didn’t even know for sure if she had a garter belt or stay-ups!

“You were kneeling yesterday afternoon,” I said with a sneer.

“That’s different,” she blushed. “My job duties required it. Besides, the pad under your desk is smooth. It doesn’t ruin my stockings the way the carpet does.”

“Well,” I said. “That’s reasonable. But you know the rules around here, Tess. Panties and bra must match.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said, still toying with the hem of her skirt. Her breath was coming quickly; her lips were parted, glistening with lip gloss and spittle.

“Since I can already see your bra,” I said, “I won’t ask you to open your blouse—you’re half-hanging out of it, you know?”

She glanced down at her tits and bit her lip flirta- tiously. Those once-milky, now-crimson mounds could be blamed almost as much as her very short skirt for my calling her in to my office. I probably wouldn’t have been so obsessed with what sort of panties Tess was wearing if I hadn’t spent half the morning transfixed by her upthrust mounds. The improbable sky-blue satin top into which she had crammed herself was at least a size too small. But it was her lacy bra that made me really curious. Somewhere between a millimeter and an inch of her lacy bra was visible at the edge of her plunging neckline. It was a peach-colored bra; it was not at all far from the hue of her skin.

It made her look naked.

If she was wearing peach-colored panties under her skirt, I wanted to see them.

On any other day, I’d just wait till she did her filing.

But her new skirt was far too long. She could file all she wanted; I wouldn’t see a thing.

And speaking of Tess’s breasts, they provided me with tangible evidence of her mounting arousal. Her nipples had gotten so hard that they showed right through her red satin top, tenting its fabric. She had been flashing

those tits at me all afternoon. She had bent over to deliver me an unasked-for cup of coffee (“Just the way you like it, Sir. Hot and creamy…”) or the Jackson report (“So you can see every detail of the case, Sir,”) or the take-out menu from the Dim Sum Café downstairs (“I know you skipped lunch, Sir, and they’ve got delicious buns.”) Every time she did, she made sure that she bent over, tucking her ass up high in the air and placing the document or coffee cup or whatever on my desk with a decided firmness, remembering to wiggle as she did it.

As if that wasn’t enough, those nipples—which now peaked the sky-blue satin of her top so suggestively—had been in evidence at various times through her workday so far. Each time, I could see her nipples, dark beneath the rippling, suggestive texture of the nearly see-through blue blouse and the lace, tenting both.

I spent much of each workday getting acquainted with my secretary’s under things—often without her “noticing” or letting on that she noticed. But today I was thoroughly transfixed by the way the peach-colored bra offset her lovely, creamy skin.

I wanted to know if she had peach-colored panties. “Up,” I told her, nodding at her skirt.

Tess said, “Yes, Sir,” and raised the thing up to her waist.

My eyes went wide. My jaw dropped. I gulped.

My secretary wasn’t wearing peach-colored panties.

In fact, she wasn’t wearing a damn thing under that skirt. Not even pubic hair—not a whisper of it.

Her red lips twisted in a smile.

She panted slightly, obviously pleased. “I shaved this morning after you left for work,” she said. “Do you like it?”

“Y-y—” was all I managed to choke out as I rose from my big leather chair. I came around the desk quickly, as Tess pirouetted and planted her perfect, bare ass on the edge of my desk.

I was on her in an instant.

I had this whole big thing planned out; I was going to chastise her for flirting with me, threaten her with some sort of civil charge of sexual harassment, blah blah blah; I had a whole huge monologue in my head, to be delivered while I bent her over my desk and gave her the spanking she so richly deserved.

But when I saw her complete absence of peach- colored panties, a spanking seemed pointless.

Instead, I kissed her hard and felt her up. Tess held her skirt up to her waist and wriggled against me. Feeling the smooth, easy access to her slicked-up sex, I dropped to my knees.

I buried my face between her smooth thighs. I licked her smooth sex and slipped my fingers up in her, working her clit and her swelling G-spot until she was ready to come.

Then I was up and ready to fuck. She got my pants open, shoving them over my hips. They dropped to my ankles. I entered my secretary easily, in one even thrust. Tess’s ardor ruined yet another J. Crew dress shirt—I’m

still finding buttons weeks later.

When I was in her deep, buried to the hilt, I kissed her hard, our tongues entangling as I gave her blouse the same treatment she’d given my shirt. Private practice can be murder on a married couple’s bank account— because of all the ripped-off clothes.

I lowered and raised my hips till I found just the right angle—then grabbed her hair and held it tight. I looked in her eyes while I worked my cock precisely up and down, reaching between us to thumb her clit as I thrust shallowly at just the right angle—I knew it so well. Her mouth dropped open. She moaned. I gave my secretary slow, jagged thrusts—just the way she liked it, ma’am, hot and creamy. She came in a minute and a half, maybe longer. She shuddered and howled and melted into my arms while her pussy clenched me rhythmically.

I let Tess catch her breath, purring into my ear as she settled into soft, even afterglow.

Then I took my pleasure with my secretary.

It had certainly turned out to be a fruitful profes- sional relationship. Months ago, it had become pain- fully necessary that my small private practice needed a part-time secretary.

Tess was, at that time, working at home as a contractor; a morning person, she was up at six and done with work before noon. When I left for work at eight or nine, she’d be locked in her office in sweats and a tank top. Afternoon, she relaxed or ran errands.

But even so, I wouldn’t have suggested her for the

job if her filthy little mind hadn’t gone there right off the bat—suggesting that whatever lucky young slut I hired would end up bent over my desk with great frequency.

And she certainly had—with great frequency.

I came with a shudder, Tess’s body clutched tight to me, her legs spread wide across my desk. It was the best time we’ve had since my wife started working for me.

Which is why I’ll never forget the day my secretary didn’t wear peach-colored panties.