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Very slow build to sex. Apologies for mistakes-no editor. Comments/criticisms welcome. silkcita
Chris settled behind his desk and prepared for the day’s last interview. There had been many. With the financial downturn in the area, the pool of attractive women willing to type and file and take a load of jizz was large. Most had offered to blow him at the end of the interview; the equivalent to Apple’s one more thing at a presentation’s end. But Chris declined. Clouded judgment led to rocky shores, and he ran a tight ship. Money, cars, expensive condos, women, they were only tools, like vitamins taken in the morning and after a meal. Chris Peters “took” them because they were necessary for a productive life—a normal life.
He was a twenty-four-year-old private accountant and freelance “investor” located in a small office suite consisting of a Liquor store, title loan office, and an Italian restaurant. This was Downtown. The only non-dilapidated building in the area was the strip club situated in a two-story building behind the suite. Except for the red neon sign of a nude woman lounging in a martini, it was hidden from the highway, soaring over the run-down strip mall like a topless phoenix. A buddy of his ran the establishment—poorly, in Chris’s opinion, but he was not one to openly critique a colleague within the criminal underworld.
The doorbell buzzed and Chris looked at the security feed. In view was the side profile of a brunette in a pink blouse and grey pinstriped pencil skirt. She looked wholly out of place to the dirt and grime on the curb.
Chris buzzed her in.
The front door opened into a waiting area and what would be his secretary’s desk. His office was adjacent to that, adjoined by a two-way mirrored door.
“Through the door on your right,” he called out blindly to her. He stood when she entered through the open office door. “Ms. Davidson?”
The young woman gave a bright smile and strolled to his desk, trying unsuccessfully to hide her nervousness as she teetered closer on unsteady feet. “Yes, sir,” she said in a breathy, girlish voice. “I’m here to be interviewed.”
Chris shook her hand and introduced himself. He got the distinct feeling that she wasn’t as smart as she dressed (a big minus). A cheery smile and lovely blue eyes made up a young face that was more girl-next-door cute than sexy. Her brown hair was browner in some places like the dark specks of a pecan shell. It was shoulder-length and fell like a bowl around her head. Her hand was soft (a plus) and her blouse was tight with a generous amount of cleavage (another plus). Very developed for her age, he observed, also noticing that she smelled strangely of oatmeal or homemade soap. Chris motioned to a chair and she turned to sit down.
His jaw dropped.
Smothered beneath her skirt was a shapely big ass.
Vitamins were good, but there was something therapeutic about squeezing a spongey ass cheek. It was the only thing that could his mind.
She sat and saw his face. “Mr. Peters?”
Resetting his mind back to business, Chris sat and folded his hands together on his desk, unable to ignore the relaxing Zen-like quality of her light blue eyes. “Do you have your resume, Ms. Davidson?”
“Oh, yes sir, I do,” the young woman smiled, pulling her shoulders back, which wobbled her breasts beneath the tight blouse.
Chris waited patiently, then said, “May I have it?”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and with an embarrassed smile reached inside her bag.
Chris took the resume when she handed it to him, disturbed to find himself eyeing her cleavage. She sat back and crossed her legs, smiling, oblivious of his ogling. With effort, he looked down at her resume. He frowned instantly.
“About my resume,” the young woman began preemptively.
Chris flipped it over, searching. “Yeah, where is it?”
He was still flipping when she looked down inside her palm and recited, “Some talents aren’t found on paper but through deed.”
Chris angled his head to her with a raised brow. “Did you just read that?”
She lowered her chin and stared at him contritely with big blue eyes. She nodded.
Chris shook his head with an impatient sigh. Her resume consisted of a list of “strengths” and three references, two of which were relatives. By far the worst he seen. He leaned back in his chair, intending to send her on her way. He didn’t mind the terrible resume or even her questionable intelligence—the position was mainly for optics, giving the place a look of legitimacy—but this wasn’t the place for a naïve, eighteen-year-old girl.
Taking a glance at her resume, Chris said, “Tammy Lyn, you look like a sweet—”
Immediately her soft features crumpled into a sob. “Please, Mr. Peters,” she cried. “We really need me to get this job. You don’t even have to give me the full five hundred. I’ll do it for four.”
Chris averted his gaze. It was his friend who placed the ad. Chris thought no one would work pendik escort for less than six, but as the interviews and propositions proved, he was wrong. The area’s downturn was due to a factory being closed. It was the pony to the town’s one and only trick. The ripple effect was catastrophic to regular folks but catnip to others, hence his presence.
He stood and walked around his desk and handed her a tissue, taking her hand then leading her to his couch. They sat and sunk into the plush leather. He saw her surprise and smiled. “Like a cloud, huh?” He’d spent top dollar for it, intending to use it when the job demanded an all-nighter.
Tammy Lyn nodded, tissue held to her running nose. Chris grabbed the box from the desk and handed it to her. That’s when he saw a strip of paper lying on the carpet. He reached and picked it up, feeling her tense beside him as he did. Not wanting to embarrass her he quietly slipped it back to her.
“Thanks,” she whispered, taking it into her hand.
“It sounded nice,” he said, lightly patting her knee. “Who wrote it?”
Remembering the references of her resume, he said, “I’m guessing the other Davidson is your mother. Who’s your other reference?”
Tammy Lyn dabbed the last bit moisture from her eye and said, “A friend down the road. She loaned me some of her mom’s work clothes.” She bit her lip, her expression saying she wished she hadn’t said that.
“Well, you look lovely,” Chris said graciously, eliciting a smile. “Have you talked to your friend’s mom about a job?” he inquired, feeling an unfamiliar urge to help. “Maybe something as an intern somewhere.”
She shook her head indicating otherwise while Chris strained to not stare at her substantial cleavage. “No one’s hiring,” she said, her tone pleading. “At least someone like me, with no work experience or High School diploma.”
Chris kept a straight face. He didn’t even check her education level on the resume—probably because it wasn’t there. “But you did go to school, right?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “I was home-schooled.”
Sighing, Chris sat back the couch, resting his left arm of the armrest. “Tammy Lyn, I don’t think I can help you.”
“Please, Mr. Peters,” Tammy Lyn begged, scooting closer until their knees bumped, sitting at the edge of the couch with her hands clasped together at her chest. Her full, rounded breasts bounced in her blouse. “We really need this job…”
She preceded to give him the standard sob story, which he’d heard one version or another all week. Sick grandmother (Gran) and a mother’s sewing business slowing just as her late father’s social security benefits were being reduced.
Chris Peters was never known for being compassionate. Indeed, some—those with psych degrees and fMRI machines—would say he lacked it. As does Nature, he used say, until he learned how to fool them.
So it wasn’t compassion that made Chris reconsider, but cold calculation. In addition to answering phones, filing bogus forms, and making him look like a “normal” guy who hired a bimbo to screw, he needed someone that he could mold, who wouldn’t ask questions why he had expensive office furniture and an eighty thousand dollar Benz in this shithole part of town. Plus, this girl sparked something within Chris. Whatever it was it made him feel, different.
Chris rubbed his chin and pretended to think. Tammy Lyn pulled her shoulders back in a desperate attempt to look professional.
“I’ll assume you’ve never worked for an accountant before,” he began. Tammy Lyn shook her head big doe blue eyes. “Well,” Chris said, her eyes making something foreign flutter in his stomach, “I’m an excellent trainer.”
She erupted into a smile, grabbing his knee. “So you’ll hire me?” she cried hopefully, bouncing atop the couch.
Chris’s eyes went to his knee then to the fleshy wedge of her jiggly cleavage. He couldn’t explain it; he was mesmerized. Following his eyes, a self-conscious Tammy Lyn leaned back and began clasping the buttons to her neck.
“Sara’s mom is a little smaller than me on top,” she said, sheepishly, clasping the last button. “I wanted to wear a sweater but Sara said the blouse made me look smart.”
“It does suit you,” Chris said, looking openly at the tempting expanse of flesh. “But those buttons look awfully stressed,” he said, wanting to assess the teen’s gullibility. “You might want to undo them before they rip.”
To his surprise, Tammy Lyn nodded and followed his suggestion. Chris took deep, slow breaths to not pant while she struggled with the buttons. His hands felt tingly.
Rape was one of the few crimes he never understood. Unlike murder, theft, or sometimes arson, the risk wasn’t worth it. But watching her little hands pinch and pull at those pink buttons—his outlook on sexual assault began to evolve.
“My fingers keep slipping,” she complained, furrowing her cute blonde brow in frustration.
“You want me to try?” he asked, maltepe escort his eyes zombie-like on her tight busty blouse. The clueless teen nodded and leaned towards him with her chest held out. Heart thudding in his chest, Chris reached for the top button while the dimwitted girl watched. The blouse was at least two sizes too small but high quality, the soft material was cool beneath his fingers.
Chris pretended to struggle. “It’s a tight, little bugger, huh?” Tammy Lyn sighed disgustedly in agreement. “You know what?” he said, an idea sparking. “I think we can use this, Tammy Lyn—for the interview.”
She tilted her head up. “How?” she asked eagerly.
“To see how well we can work together,” he answered. “If one of us squeezes your blouse together on both sides, the other can undo the buttons.”
Tammy Lyn’s face lit up. “I never thought of that, Mr. Peters.”
Chris shrugged it off, uniquely aroused by her innocence and stupidity, along with her youthful face and mature development. She was like a fairytale, a voluptuous, eighteen-year-old Alice raised in a rabbit hole. “So,” he said, summoning the smile he used for cashiers. “We’ll let you unbutton while I squeeze, okay?”
Tammy Lyn smiled wide and genuinely, thrilled to be tasked something so simple during the interview. The job was as good as hers!
Despite his growing excitement, Chris played it cool, cupping the teen’s rack with steady hands, his face impassive. Still, the soft heft beneath the silk material made him take a sharp breath. He felt himself harden. “Okay, Tammy Lyn,” he said, forcing slow breaths. “Go.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, practicing her secretary voice. She tried the top button first, her face frowning with the indefatigable focus of a toddler with a set of keys.
Seeing that she was distracted, Chris palmed her breasts, softly kneading at their delicious weight. But her fingers were slick and frustration then worry began to knit her brow. Chris now pressed the two sides of her blouse together, amused by the sight of her tits squishing in the middle like pink balloons.
Unfortunately Tammy Lyn got one and yelped with joy. “We got one, Mr. Peters!”
Chris smiled and encouraged her—surprised to feel genuine enthusiasm for something so trivial. “Great job, Tammy Lyn! If you keep that up I’ll no choice but to hire you.”
The innocent young woman beamed with pride then tucked in her chin down for the next button. She got it, revealing a nice slit of cleavage.
“You’re a natural, Tammy Lyn,” Chris said, eyeing her progress. “But since we’re on a roll, let’s do one more.”
Tammy Lyn was all grins, feeling a great deal of accomplishment. She never felt so useful before and she liked how it felt. She wasn’t as dumb as her Gran said she was. She unclasped the third button and looked to Mr. Peters with overwhelming pride, waiting anxiously while he inspected her work. She’d done it!
Slowly, Chris moved his hands to the underside of her breasts, examining her absurd cleavage like a memo. There was a faint M-shaped tan line running across her smooth skin. He gave them a little squeeze as he nodded. “Outstanding, Tammy Lyn.” Forcing himself to let go. He raised his left hand for a high-five, the perfect gesture for her adolescent temperament. “You rocked it!”
Tammy Lyn bit her lip and gave a wicked grin as she slapped his hand. Her breasts almost popped out, flashing a seam of her white bra.
“Okay,” he said, calming himself with a deep breath. “That ends phase one. Are you ready for phase two?”
“Yes sir!” Tammy Lyn beamed, her face bright. She sat straight with her shoulders back, her hands clasped in her lap like a bona-fide secretary, displaying plump breasts in her half-buttoned blouse.
Chris stared silently, unable to look away. “Just checking over your work again,” he said. She glanced down at her blouse, worried. Chris nodded. “I run a tight ship.”
There was no phase two. Chris made that up. He did, however, have her sign a non-disclosure slip, delivering a brief but solemn speech about the long tradition of secretaries, sprinkling in words like trust, obedience, submission, and special duties, for good measure. Tammy Lyn took every word to heart, her expression alternating from focused concentration to unabashed admiration.
“Well, that completes phase two. Welcome aboard, Ms. Davidson.”
Tammy Lyn was beside herself with joy. “Thank you, Mr. Peters!” she cried. “I’ll be the best secretary you ever had! You won’t regret it!”
Chris was pleased. In addition to hiring an impressionable young girl with a voluptuous body, he now possessed a tool to explore the sensations of desire and awe—or, therapeutic lust. Truth be told, however much he felt alienated from people, he felt even more so with women. Perhaps a personal office slut could assist him in assimilating with the masses.
Chris spent the next hour showing his new secretary kartal escort around the office. He was unsettled by her enthusiasm, confused how a pretty girl could have such low self-esteem. He reasoned her mother and Gran kept her isolated but now were desperate for money.
She nearly burst into tears when she learned that she wouldn’t start until Monday because of the interviews scheduled for tomorrow. Chris explained that he needed a reserve of resumes of hand. What if he had to expand next month and needed more help? Or worse, his new all-star secretary decided to quit?
But in truth, he wanted to make her sweat—let her know she could be easily replaced. And it had its desired effect. Already cheerful and friendly, now she really turned it on: smiling and looking into his eyes, hanging on to his every word.
Seeing the uptick in her willingness to please, Chris became bolder: standing closer to her—now a hand grasping her shoulder, a hug here and there, an innocent pat on her butt. Accountants were math jocks and a pat of the butt was like saying “good game.”
Soon, he was telling her “good game” for everything, from remembering how he liked his coffee, to repeating the name of his favorite drycleaners; and far from being offended or made uncomfortable, Tammy Lyn reveled in it; as every touch, squeeze, and grope was preceded by a compliment or an acknowledgement of her ability. Like a rosebud starved of water, the insecure teen soaked it up, her subconscious equating his physical contact to praise and approval.
“Before you go,” Chris said, motioning her to the comfy couch against the wall, “let’s have a talk off-the-clock.”
“Sure, Mr. Peters.”
On the couch, he wrapped his arm around her waist and was pleased when she scooted closer. Her face seemed to glow when his hand grasped her thigh. “Even though I’m your boss,” Chris began, preparing to capitalize on her insecurities, “you can come to me about anything. Think of me as your boss and special friend, okay?”
Tammy Lyn smiled and actually shed a tear. “You have no idea how good that sounds, Mr. Peters. Things are pretty rough at home.”
Chris squeezed her and summoned a sympathetic nod. Then: “Can you type?” The change in direction caught the newly-minted secretary off-guard. Chris continued matter-of-factly, “I didn’t see it listed on your resume. All the other applicants had it listed. I thought maybe you had forgotten.”
The quiet teen looked down at her lap. Chris could almost smell her dread. He didn’t let up.
“You were my twenty-eighth applicant, Tammy Lyn. That’s twenty-seven women who can’t pay their rent or buy their kids groceries. You think about that. Now, let’s move on to your office attire. How you’re dressed today,” he began, nodding down at her open blouse, “is how I’d expect my secretary to dress everyday—like a uniform. You understand?”
“. . . Yes sir,” Tammy Lyn whispered, her face crestfallen. A terrific attitude and effort couldn’t buy better clothes or teach her how to type.
“And I’m guessing you don’t have the money for a new wardrobe.”
Tammy Lyn fidgeted with her fingers and worried her lip. She shook head and whispered a barely audible, “No sir.”
“But I like you,” Chris said in an uplifting voice, patting her softly on her thigh. “I see something in you.” Looking warmly into her eyes, he added, “Something special. So how ’bout I loan you the money for office clothes?”
Tammy Lyn’s face froze like a child on Christmas morning. The stuff about typing and applicants had scared her until her stomach hurt. But then, out of nowhere, Mr. Peters was there to save the day. She buried her teary face into his chest, clinging to his dress shirt.
Instead of being annoyed that she was smearing makeup on his shirt, Chris saw himself wrap his arms around her, protectively. He felt something panging inside his chest.—another unfamiliar sensation. He deduced she had Daddy Issues and that a childhood’s worth of dopamine was currently flooding her system. Somehow, the excess affecting him.
Chris shook those feelings away gave a reserved nod, the kind given after winning a fixed bet. He patted her back soothingly. “It’s no biggie,” he said. “We’re a team now; we take care of each other.” He pulled away and handed her a tissue, taking five hundred dollars from his wallet while she nabbed her eyes. Mere crumbs to him. He would’ve given her more (he wanted his office slut to look the part) but feared raising concerns at home. Tammy Lyn’s blue eyes went as big as saucers when she saw the money.
“You think your friend’s mom can take you shopping this weekend?” Tammy Lyn nodded and said she could. Chris handed her the money. “Skirts and heels and the like,” he said, patting her on the butt. “Nothing too revealing but nothing less than what you’re wearing now, okay?”
Tammy Lyn nodded emphatically, thanking him profusely, her dark brown hair bouncing like a happy puppy.
Satisfied, he walked her to the door and waved as she climbed into an old green truck. The rusty Chevy groan to life and sputtered out of the parking lot, merging into the three o’clock traffic.
Chris closed the door and smiled. He couldn’t wait until Monday.
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