Working Girl

Today I am supposed to be a working girl, since last week I kind of took a pass on all things work related.  Instead I am sitting here in my office, wearing a low-cut blouse, black pencil skirt and 5-inch heels, working a bit but also daydreaming, feeling like the epitome of the office bimbo–the too-sexy secretary of (probably) many a man’s fantasy.  You know, the one that bends over her Boss’s desk suggestively when she needs his signature, that will go down on him during a conference call, that lets him take her to the local no-tell motel for a quickie at lunch.
I love it.
I love this game that we play. I love being W’s office slut, his sexy secretary, his Working Girl, even when I am here and he is there.  I love it even more that he really does appreciate me for the work I do, for my professionalism and dedication, intelligence and diligence, even as he makes me his office slut, as he uses me and objectifies me and turns me into his “sexretary.”
I got ready this morning while W watched.  Ostensibly I was dressing for work, but actually I was dressing for him, wondering, as I watched his gaze take in my hair, my face, my outfit, and most of all, these ridiculously inappropriately high heels (knowing exactly why I was dressing this way, and nodding approvingly), if he’d be thinking about me all day.  About me strutting around my office in them, my coworkers checking me out; about the boy that craned his neck to watch me as I crossed the street to the Bread Co. to get my coffee; about the mothers that gave me the hairy eyeball when I dropped my son off at summer camp; about the sandwich delivery guy that I caught staring at my ass as I bent over the table in front of him to sign the credit card slip for my lunch.
I wonder and hope that he will be, but instead it is me thinking about him as I take my circumscribed steps, knowing that it is this image that turns him on–the powerful, confident woman hobbled by him, not by rope this time but by the heels he makes her wear.  I think about him as I feel the skirt and heels accentuating the flex of my calves and curve of my ass, the blouse clinging to my hips and the indent of my waist.  I think again about his eyes on me in the mirror as I made up my face and brushed out my hair, and his hand in my hair earlier that morning, in bed.  Now, my face is perfectly made up and my hair stylish in its new sleek bob, but it’s still a bit messy, as though it is remembering his hand in it as well, or as though I’d just straightened it after I’d been down on my knees in front of the Boss’s chair, his hand on my head as he held my mouth to his cock while he chatted on the phone. Merely another perk of being the Boss–having a willing, open hole to fuck whenever he desires.
The truth is not far from that–this morning in bed he rolled unceremoniously on top of me as I dozed after the alarm went off and pushed inside of me before my body had a chance to prepare: my cunt closed, tight, dry, but still, ever-willing. “You’re just a fuckhole today,” he said. “I’ll use your hole dry or wet. It makes no different to me.”  I gasped, yielded, tried to accommodate, and, as it always does, it didn’t take long for my body to respond, wetting, opening and grasping him. But it really made no difference to him–he fucked my hole until he was finished and rolled off, dismissing me. “Get ready for work,” he said.  “You’re late.”
Sitting in my office now, trying to think about work (because I know he really does want me to be a Working Girl today) my cunt gets wet again thinking instead about his casual use of my body this morning.  I know that later, alone, I will touch myself and think again of him pushing into me, shoving past the rings seemingly laced shut against him, my body dry and unprepared, and of the way my body always, in the end, opens up for him. I’ll lay in bed and slide my fingers inside myself, between my rings, and feel just how wet the thought of being his Working Girl, always ready, always willing, makes me.

Pssst–there might be a click-thru somewhere…