Page 10 of Trained at the Office
“Tell me, Anne. Tell me you want it. Tell me you want to put on beautiful lingerie and let people see you. Tell me you want to surrender. Because your body already has, honey. Your body surrendered the first day you walked into this building. All I need is for your mouth to catch up.”
The wave was still there. I could feel it suspended and trembling, like a held breath in every nerve ending. All it needed was one touch. One brush of her fingers. One second of that devastating, skillful contact, and I would shatter into something I’d never been before.
“Please,” I sobbed. “Please, I want it. I want the modeling job. Please, Penelope, I want it, I’ll do it, I’ll do whatever you want, just please—please…”
The words spilled out of me. I couldn’t have stopped them any more than I could have stopped my own heartbeat. I didn’t even know, in that moment, whether I meant them or whether I simply said whatever she needed to hear to make her touch me again. The distinction had ceased to matter. Need had swallowed everything—pride, conviction, modesty—and left only this: a girl bent over a desk with her panties at her thighs, begging her boss for an orgasm and a job modeling degrading, wanton, beautiful lingerie.
Penelope didn’t answer with words.
I felt her kneel behind me. The movement was smooth, unhurried—I heard the soft rustle of her suit trousers against the carpet, felt the shift in the air as she lowered herself. Her hands found my knees, and she spread them gently but firmly, widening my stance until my thighs were parted and my polka-dot panties stretched taut between them like a cotton bridge.
Then she blew.
A single, soft breath of warm air, directed with the same kind of control she used in everything else she did, straight across the slick, swollen center of me, across the place where every nerve Ipossessed seemed to have gathered into a desperate network of lewd desire.
The sound I made wasn’t a moan, a scream, or a sob. It seemed all three at once: a broken, animal noise that I would have been mortified to hear coming from anyone else and that I was powerless to stop coming from myself. My hips bucked forward against the edge of the desk, then pushed back toward her mouth, seeking more, seeking contact, seeking anything other than this exquisite, torturous almost-nothing that left me shaking and clenching around emptiness.
“Oh, God,” I choked. “Oh, God, please, please, I can’t… I need…”
Penelope exhaled again, another warm breath that ghosted over my most sensitive flesh, and my knees nearly buckled. The air against my wetness felt like being touched and not touched at the same time, like being held at the very precipice of sensation without being allowed to fall. My fingers scrabbled uselessly against the desk. My forehead pressed into the wood hard enough to leave a mark. I had started to cry again—openly, messily, without any pretense of composure—and between the sobs came sounds I’d never known I could make, desperate little whimpers that belonged to a girl I didn’t recognize as myself.
“Please,” I said again. The word had become the only one I knew.
Penelope stood. I heard her rise, and then she stood behind me again, and her voice, when it came, carried a roughness that stripped away the last pretense of professional detachment.
“What we both need,” she said, in a tone that sounded rueful and almost tender, “is a good hard cock inside us. That’s really what this calls for, isn’t it? A man who knows what to do with a girl who’s this wet and this desperate.” Her hand rested onmy burning bottom, and I flinched and moaned simultaneously. “But we don’t have that luxury right now. So we’ll have to do the best we can.”
I heard her move away from me. I should have used that moment—those few seconds of separation—to pull up my panties, stand up, and walk out of her office and out of this building and never come back. I should have. I knew I should have. Instead I stayed exactly where I was, bent over the desk with my skirt bunched at my waist, my polka-dot underwear stretched between my thighs, and my paddled bottom blazing in the open air, because the need inside me had become a physical force, a kind of gravity.
I heard a wooden sound: the click and the creak of something opening. A cabinet, maybe. I turned my head, craning my neck to look over my shoulder, and what I saw nearly made me faint.
Penelope had started to undress, as she looked inside a wardrobe in the corner of her office.
She’d already removed her suit jacket and was working the buttons of her ivory blouse with quick, practiced fingers. Beneath it she wore a bra I hadn’t expected—not the sensible nude or white I would have guessed, but a deep, arterial red, lacy and underwired. It cupped her breasts with the frank provocation of a woman who dressed for herself beneath the armor she wore for others.
The blouse dropped to the floor. Her trousers followed—unzipped, briskly stepped out of—and beneath them, a matching red garter belt, its straps taut against her thighs, holding up sheer black stockings that ended in a dark band just above her knees. Red lace panties that she peeled off and set aside on thecredenza without ceremony, as if this were simply another task to be completed.
She was beautiful. The thought arrived uninvited and undeniable. At forty-something, Penelope Gallagher had the body of a woman who took exquisite care of herself—lean and firm, with the slight softness at the hips and belly that spoke of maturity rather than neglect. In her red lingerie and stockings, with her chestnut hair still immaculate and her pearls still resting against her collarbone, she looked like something from an obscene parody of an old painting: classical, composed, and incredibly sexual.
Then she reached into the cabinet and withdrew an item that made the blood drain from my face and rush, simultaneously, to the place between my legs.
She pulled out a harness. Black leather, with buckles and adjustable straps, and attached to its front was a phallus—not grotesquely large but substantial, made of some material that looked almost lifelike in the warm light of her office, with a slight upward curve that my body seemed to understand before my mind did. But it was the other piece—the internal attachment, a shorter, curved protrusion that faced inward, clearly designed to fit inside the wearer—that made me understand what was about to happen with a clarity that robbed me of breath.
She was going to put that inside herself. And then she was going to put the other part inside me.
Penelope stepped into the harness. She adjusted the straps at her hips, tightening them with small, expert tugs, and then…
I watched, mesmerized, horrified, burning, as she reached between her own legs and guided the internal piece into herself.Her lips parted slightly as it slid home, and I saw her eyes flutter, just for an instant, before the composure reasserted itself. She settled the harness into place, buckled the final strap, and stood before me in her red garter belt and bra and stockings and pearls, with the phallus jutting from between her thighs like something out of a fever dream I’d never had but had apparently always been waiting to have.
“Turn around,” she said. Her voice had dropped half a register. “Face the wall. Naughty girls don’t get to watch themselves getting fucked.”
I turned around with a whimper of shame. My vision swam. Black spots danced at the edges, and for a moment I genuinely thought I might pass out—not from pain but from the sheer, overwhelming collision of humiliation and terror and need that was happening inside my body. My knees shook. My hands gripped the edge of the desk so hard my fingers ached. I could feel my own arousal running down the inside of my thigh, a slow, damning trickle that proved everything the biometric report had said about me.
I felt her behind me. The warmth of her body, close now, closer than before. The smooth, firm pressure of the phallus against the back of my thigh, then higher, sliding through the wetness that coated me, finding the entrance to my body with a precision that seemed almost mechanical but felt anything but.
“Breathe,” Penelope said, and her hand found the small of my back again, steadying me, pinning me in place. The other hand guided the shaft. I felt the tip press against the opening of my desperate sheath. Penelope didn’t push roughly or suddenly, but with a patient, insistent pressure that gave my body time to understand what was happening, but no time at all to resist it.
She thrust forward.
