I am using the company internet connection to research a paper. I see you leave your office and head for the bathroom. Movement makes you turn your head as you pass my cubicle.
“Hey, what are you still doing here?” you find yourself stopping to say. “Just catching up on a few things. Can I get you anything, sir?”
“Oh. Yes. Would you please start the coffee drip? It looks like I am going to be here a while. I’ll take it in my office when it’s ready.”
“Certainly, sir.” I don’t know why I’m extra polite to you. It just sounds so right to address you respectfully. I find myself irrationally wanting to please you. Anyone else I’d stall and say screw you. It’s 10 pm, fucker, but for you, I put my heels back on and rush into the kitchen. As the coffee brews, I straighten my skirt, and the seams of my stockings, pull my hair back and unbutton so my camisole clad breast is plainly exposed. I pour you a cup and fix it the way you like, just a little cream to cool it off and carry it in to you on a saucer.
I stop in your doorway; you’re on the phone. You pretend to not notice me there for a minute, my legs shifting in the heels after a long day, my hips leaning from side to side. Without ever looking directly at me, you wave me in. Still on the phone you tap the desk where I am to place the coffee. You are really something else, but I do as I am told. I lean forward and I realize the view is completely scandalous. Lace isn’t part of the dress code here, your eyebrow seems to say. As you hang up the phone I straighten up and ask,
“Will, that be all?” You stand up and come around the desk to where I am standing, sort of back me into it, so my tush is pressed against the edge. You touch my cheek and say that no, that’s not all. Without any warning, I realize you’re undoing the rest of my buttons, and pulling my shirt back over my shoulders. I’m breathing so hard, looking at you looking at my breasts. You tilt my chin up to look at you and I feel my knees shake. I wasn’t expecting this. I had only flirted with fantasies before this moment.
You kiss my neck and touch my skin, sliding spaghetti straps down my arms. I’m mewing when one of the other suits walks in. He’s holding files but says nothing, just gapes at me standing between you and the desk, my nipples slightly exposed, my shirt still tucked in and pushed so far down my arms it’s holding them back. I suddenly get shy and press myself against you. He starts to apologize and backs out the door but you tell him to stay, at which point I am confused and somewhat scared.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask as I look at you naively. “Everything.”
You push me back so you and your colleague can see me again. You pull my undershirt down so my breasts fall out completely. The other man enters the room completely and shuts the door, locking it. You walk me over to the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the rest of Manhattan’s money and facing me forward, looking out, you undress me slowly rubbing my skin as you take each piece of clothing off. You pull my skirt down and I step out of it. You touch the naked part of my ass in the garters and slide your finger around below my waist. You can’t believe I came to work without panties on. Just stockings. You whisper how I’ve been bad, so bad to wear something like that. You leave me standing there in the bright light of your office, almost naked, visible to hundreds of New York windows, and I can’t move. I am grounded there, slightly spread eagle, face turned away blushing. Only you have this hold on me, sir.