Under Her Desk

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Under Her Desk

It was her certainty that threw me; the way she skillfully tossed the directive into the conversation like a casual observation. One minute we were talking about the minutiae of office life, toner supplies or stationary vendors, I can’t even remember what, and the next she was asking me to… well…
“Get on your knees and crawl under my desk,” she said, glancing up from her paperwork, her dark eyes suddenly narrow and focused, mouth curled up in a sultry smile.
“Ms. Monroe?” I replied, sure that I’d misheard her.
“I said, get on your knees and crawl under my desk.”
She leaned her head to the side and rested her chin on her upturned palm, then absentmindedly pointed downwards with her other hand. My gaze followed her motion as she slowly crossed her legs beneath the desk. The oppressive silence of the room was interrupted by the soft swish of her nylon covered thighs brushing together, the gentle brush of a lover’s caress.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said, though that wasn’t quite true. A tidal wave of remembered office rumours rose in my mind as I recalled the hushed bathroom talk about Alice Monroe and her curious appetites; rumours I’d dismissed as scurrilous slander, the incessant chattering of the secretary pool gossips.
Ms. Monroe frowned and sat forward, clasping her hands together before her and drawing her feet beneath her seat. She fixed me with an icy glare, then beamed her viper smile. I felt myself shrink under her scrutiny, cowering before the overwhelming presence of this maddeningly compelling woman.
“I want you to listen carefully, Ella, because I’m going to say this only once,” she began, her voice low and steady, almost monotone, the kind of intonation you use when giving a c***d her final warning. “In approximately twenty seconds, you’re going to get down on your knees and crawl under my canlı bahis siteleri desk. You’re going to remove my shoes and you’re going to wrap those pretty, painted lips around my foot as though it was your boyfriend’s cock. My feet have been in these heels all day long and they need attention.”
I glanced down again, unable to parse what was being asked of me. Beneath the desk, Ms. Monroe offered her foot out to me and flicked her toes upwards, slipping the shoe from her heel and letting it dangle back and forth lazily. I returned my gaze to Ms. Monroe’s face. The corner of her mouth rose in a suggestive smirk.
“If you’re a good girl,” she began, emphasizing the words ‘good girl’ with a purposeful focus, “then I’ll let you eat my pussy later.”
Her words hung in the air between us like an accusation, my short term fate detailed in that single sentence and left for my inspection. My instincts told me to stand and run, to leave the office and the building and the whole awful job. I considered pleading with her, telling her that I wasn’t a lesbian, that I didn’t do those kinds of things, that she had the wrong girl. But I said nothing. Deep down, I knew that such protestations would be futile at best and dishonest at worst. Instead, my eyes dropped below her desk once more and fixated on the slowly swinging shoe that hung from her foot; the curve of her arch, the perplexing softness of her sole flashing into view as her foot dipped slowly up and down.
I felt my body moving, my vantage point shifting until it felt external and remote, becoming a casual observer of my own sordid submission. I slipped forwards from the chair to my knees, scarcely able to believe that I was doing this, barely understanding the myriad thoughts and feelings that were running through my mind. An insistent throb rose between my legs, a drumbeat tipobet of novel desire that thrilled and confused me with every deep pulse.
I glanced up at her and our eyes met, an electric spark of connection passing between us as she held her foot out towards me. She nodded and smiled, then pointed downwards again; that lazy, expectant gesture that I found so difficult to resist.
Reaching forwards with trembling hands, I took her shoe by its long heel and slowly lifted it from her foot, relishing the unveiling with an instinct that I didn’t recognize but embraced like an old friend.
Tasting freedom, her foot flexed, toes stretching back and splaying out, causing the dark line of her pantyhose seam to ripple like a mathematical curve as her digits danced. It was hypnotic, irresistible. I felt a warm wetness between my legs, soaking my panties as my anticipation rose. My breathing quickened to fast, deep sighs and I caught her scent in my nose for the first time. An intoxicating cocktail of shoe leather and sweat and floral perfume, each bold note complimenting the others and overwhelming my senses with the closeness of the other woman and the intimacy the encounter.
My mind raced, struggling to handle the cascade of new feelings surging through it. I surrendered to my instincts and allowed myself to be guided by the new hunger that had possessed me utterly. My fingers wrapped around her foot and halted its mesmerizing motion, gripping the soft, velvety length of it and holding it before my face. The universe seemed to collapse to a tunnel; my one focus becoming Ms. Monroe’s foot, the bold fixation of my raging desire.
For the briefest of moments the old me exerted itself, a stranger in this new reality, and demand to know what on earth I was doing, why I’d capitulated to her sordid whims with barely a word of protest. tipobet güvenilir mi But then Ms. Monroe wiggled her toes back and forth impatiently, crimson jewels beneath black nylon, and my old self vanished with neither a sigh or a whisper.
Leaning forward, I touched my lips to her sole, a tentative, probing kiss like the first taste of adolescent love. The flavor of her filled my being, rich and warm, the essence of woman, and my body demanded more. I kissed her again, flicking my tongue across her nylon covered flesh, sampling her like a fine wine. Each taste made me hunger for more, each kiss made my heart and mind sing in a glorious chorus of desire.
I moved to her toes, wrapping my lips around her, feeling them squirm in my mouth as my tongue lapped at her. Her pantyhose became soaked, the darkening wetness of my uncontrollable lust. I buried my face in her sole, pushing my nose into the space behind her toes, and breathed in, filling myself with her, consuming her like a vapor, melding our mutual desire into a glorious single entity. Faster and faster I moved, lost in my exploration, provoking the drumbeat between my legs to a fast crescendo, devouring her toes and sole and heel with the passion of unexpected lust.
And then she moved, uncrossing her legs and pulling her foot from my mouth. I gasped and blinked, shocked into awareness by the sudden absence, but I held onto her foot like a prize. Before me, Ms. Monroe shifted in her seat and parted her legs, reaching down and tugging her smart, crisp skirt up her shapely thighs. Without thinking, I gasped again as I glimpsed her pussy, exposed and frozen beneath the soft, dark gauze of her sheer pantyhose, the absence of panties shocking the part of me that was still shocked by such trivial omissions. With growing fascination, I studied the complex folds of her sex, a glorious topography that I found myself longing to chart.
Then she spoke, her voice low and rich, dripping with expectation and hot, sultry desire.
“I knew you’d be a good girl Ella.”
And I knew then that I was going to be a very good girl indeed.

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