“Breanne! I need you!”
My head snapped up from my computer at her words. It wasn’t a cry for help. No, the tone wasn’t right. It sounded relaxed, as if Kari merely needed me to render judgement on her latest design, or comment on the color of a particular textile. It didn’t sound sexual either. There was no lust or seduction in her plea, merely a simple command.
I need you.
Carefully I stood up. This was partly because I’d been hunched behind my open laptop computer in a desperate, but ultimately useless attempt to conceal my attire from anyone walking through the building’s atrium. My desk was positioned in the small lobby of Kari’s interior design firm, just a few short feet from her office door, but in full view of the building’s central core. A glass wall separated me from the other denizens of the office complex and I’d become something of a well known commodity at the building; the personal assistant who looked and dressed like the star of Secretary Sluts III.
Kari had bought the latest outfit, a gauze mesh blouse that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. My bare breasts were completely visible through the material, leaving only a black haze to mute the whiteness of my skin, or the dark pink tips of my breasts. If you looked closely enough, you could see the fading welts of a caning I’d received a week before.
The skirt wasn’t much better. Kari had eschewed the tight, Spandex like minis she usually liked to dress me in, and instead had purchased a black, pleated number that barely covered my ass while standing and did nothing of the sort while sitting. This left me in quite the state since the front of my desk lacked a solid partition to keep passersby from getting a glimpse of my thighs. And since Kari’s defacto rule was that I should never let my knees touch, my only remedy was keeping my stuffed slit in shadow.
And stuffed it was, which was why I rose carefully.
The feel of the well-oiled, rubber dildo almost made me swoon, but that’s the kind of girl I am. Thick, nine inches long, and buried deep in my sex, the “toy of the day” neither vibrated or corkscrewed, instead spurring me toward desires of bouncing delight. Constantly wet and wanting, do you have any idea what it’s like, sitting there at a desk, knowing that people are walking by to see your body, your sexual antics, all while you’re torn between the desire to run and hide and to give in and just bounce your way to orgasm?
It’s torture.
My knees touched as I stood, wrapping one arm across my bosom. There was no help for it. The dildo would have slid out, falling wetly to the carpeted floor. I blushed, just thinking about such a thing. The atrium was empty, but the thought of being seen mortified me. With small steps, I hurried down the hall, my feet encased in six inch stilettos, and looked into Kari’s office.
It was empty.
The dildo seemed to move inside me, wriggling as I took a few more steps and glanced into the kitchenette. The coffee machine was quiet and my boss was nowhere to be found. I looked to my left, into her art room. Her drawing desk was empty, her pens and papers and texture books all set in place, ordered and quiet. I gulped. There were just two more doors; the conference room and the punishment closet. A fifty - fifty chance. Not that it made a difference. Kari could punish me in either room.
She had done it before.
The rest of this tale is no longer available on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog, but can be found in Breanne's book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 18" which is available in e-book format from Amazon.com!
