Daddy's

by Helen Goodman

  It's not like I'm the first one who's noticed this either. The way you chew out your subordinates is legendary. They're terrified of you. I've heard it, you know, one of them screws up in even some minor way. Ranting and raving about their incompetence and their stupidity at the top of your voice. I've seen men leave your office looking shell-shocked and women on the verge of tears. I try not to catch their eyes, though. I'm too busy doing my best to not leave a wet spot on my chair.

  I've never made an error like that but I picture it. I picture getting an important date or name wrong and you just absolutely losing it with me. Yelling at me all the things you yell at them. Only when I picture it I'm naked, my hands bound behind my back with your necktie and my wet panties stuffed into my mouth. Your heavy cock is inside of me, spearing me again and again until, you say, I'll learn.

  I know you've noticed me. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm blonde, by all accounts pleasing to the eye and young enough to be your daughter. Most men can and do look. I know you think I haven't caught it but every now and then I catch you looking at me before you avert your eyes, probably afraid of a sexual harassment lawsuit. If you only knew. I've done my best to encourage it. Nothing indecent. My hemlines are a little higher maybe, my sweaters and blouses hug the curves of my breasts a little tighter. And underneath, well, every day it might be the day, right? So I'm sure you'd understand that on that fateful day when you do tear my clothes off of me you'll find a slinky little thong or a black lace set. Somedays I think about just going without but...well, I'll save that. I like to imagine that I'll have plenty of time to sit at my desk without my panties, my hair dishevelled, my sweater slightly torn, a fresh batch of your hot cum leaking out of me.

  But you noticing me raises an interesting question. I've cum thinking about you, have you cum thinking about me? Has that wife of yours gotten a particularly energetic fucking of late as you pictured it was me your dick was pounding into? I bet she has, the lucky cow. I've talked to her on the phone. She sounds like a bit of a cold fish. The type that just lies there and maybe gives you a half-hearted blow job on your birthday. If I was in that bed and you told me you wanted me to fuck you I'd slam my cunt up and down your cock until I passed out from exhaustion.

  And with the frustration you carry, I know she doesn't fuck you enough. I bet a lot of nights it's a dark room, internet porn and your own hand. It's such a waste. It could be me, on my knees, looking up at you with my big brown eyes as my lips lock around first one ball, then the other, before sucking your cock into my mouth. Not stopping until you were to ready to explode and then letting you just burst onto my face, covering me with every drop you'd been saving up. Feeling it splash against my skin before I greedily scoop it into my mouth.

  I could do that all the time. Wouldn't you like that? Instead of glowering through those conference calls I could be under your desk, looking every bit the immaculate professional woman except for my lips stretched obscenely around the head of your cock as I jacked you off into my mouth. And when you were done you could just send me back out, to sit at my desk with the taste of your semen still on my tongue. You could call me in like that three, four times a day and every time I'd be hungry for more.

  But you know when you get the angriest? When I see you almost burst and I get the closest to believing the day may come? When your daughters call. You've got two. The older one is getting married and the younger one just graduated college. Each time after one of them calls you tell me to get your banker on the phone. I know it's because you're paying for the one's wedding and you're paying the other one's rent. I know the younger one calls you up to beg her daddy for more of an allowance while the younger one whines and cries about having the perfect wedding no matter how much it costs.

  You could definitely work out those frustrations with me. I know I even look a little bit like them. I'm right in between their ages and they're blondes with tight little bodies like me. I'd be happy to call you daddy and beg for more. I'd just be doing it with your cock buried deep in my ass and I'd be begging you to make sure every drop of your cum gets blasted into my tight little asshole. Or I could dress up like a bride for you. After all, you're paying for things. Shouldn't you be the one who gets to yank up that pristine white dress, rip off my bridal panties and be the first man to blast a huge load of sperm into my unprotected pussy? I think so. In fact, I'd insist on it.

  It just makes me sad. You look like you could use a dirty little fuck toy. You've got a perfect one right outside your office if you'd just use me for what I was built for. I want it so badly, sir. I fuck myself thinking about it but my fingers are no substitute for a thick, hard cock just slamming into me harder and harder until I just can't take it anymore. Please sir, I'd be such a dedicated little whore. Won't you please give me what I need?

  The End.

  The Birthday Gift

  He heard the door to his office open. It was late. Who could that be?

  He was halfway through his third bourbon and was likely to either kill or be killed by a burglar, but pleasantly toasted enough to not give a shit about either outcome.

  Then she appeared in his office door way.

  He smiled.

  She was wearing all black. What else was new? Her black wraparound dress was secured with a loose knot at the waist. He glanced long enough to ponder if that was all that held it together. He also thought she was wearing too much lipstick.

  "What are you doing here? I thought you were going to happy hour or something?" he asked.

  "I did. Just left," she said.

  She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe.

  "Did you think I forgot?" she said.

  "What?" he said, playing dumb.

  "Your birthday. Did you think I forgot your birthday?" she asked.

  The thought had crossed his mind. In the many years they worked together, she'd never forgotten his birthday. Always a message, a card, a small gift. Something. And always on his birthday. She never missed the actual day.

  He wasn't upset or hurt anything. What was he, a chic? It was just a birthday. But he did feel slight surprise at it.

  "I forgot it was my birthday, so how could I think you forgot?" he said.

  "Liar," she said.

  "I just wanted to bring you my present in person," she said.

  "It isn't more ice by any chance, is it?" he shook his glass at her.

  "Haha, no. It isn't. Depending on your view, it could be interpreted as the opposite of ice. But give me that," she said.

  She took his glass and got him more ice from the freezer.

  "Here," she said.

  "Happy birthday," she said.

  He added some more to his glass, and leaned back in the chair.

  She was always flirting with him, jokingly propositioning him. It had become a running gag between them. So much so that he no longer took any of it one bit seriously.

  "So? Where is it?" Is it edible? I'm starving," he said.

  She laughed again, but he realized he was sort of being a jerk. Unfortunately, he was in that kind of mood. So she'd have to deal.

  "You tell me," she said.

  "But first," she said, walking into his office.

  She was wearing heels he liked.

  He turned around in his chair to face her.

  She took the string to her dress and held it up to him.

  "First, you have to unwrap it," she said, smiling at him — an evil smile, a pirate's smile, as they say.

  He looked up at her and put his glass on the desk.

  "Seriously?" he said.

  "Seriously," she said.

  "It's easy to unwrap. Just pull," she said.

  He was stuck for a minute. Should he do it? It was probably not advisable.

  The angel on his shoulder scolded him to keep his hands to himself. The devil on his shoulder urged him to pull. What was the big deal? It didn't mean he had to do anything.

  Come on, the devil said, you know you want to....

  A
nd the devil on his shoulder was three bourbons bigger than his puny angel. He flicked her out of his mind.

  And then he pulled.

  She stepped back as the dress fell open, and his eyes started at the bottom, and worked their way up.

  Slowly.

  Heels leading up to stockings. Stockings heading up to end mid thigh. Red garters holding up stockings, leading past red satin and lace panties.

  The garters finished at a red lace and satin corset bustier tied tightly with a thick black satin ribbon under her full breasts, ending with black satin bow tied just low enough at her cleavage.

  Now he got the red lipstick. It matched perfectly.

  She looked like some type of sexy old West saloon girl, and searching his eyes, hers held that same combination of bravado, sensuality and vulnerability he imagined those women exuded.

  Also, while he preferred the girl-next-door type usually — she looked hot.

  "Well?" she said.

  "You did all this for me?" he said.

  "I didn't do anything yet," she said, smiling.

  "I thought this was the present?" he said.

  "You haven't finished unwrapping the present yet," she said.

  "That's a lot of red lipstick," he said.

  "It is. What do you want me to get it on first?" she said.

  He laughed.

  "I want you to get it off," he said.

  "I'll get it off," she said, smiling.

  He fished an ice cube out of his drink, and stood up to her now. She involuntarily took a step backward, suddenly nervous. Vulnerable.

  He held the ice cube to her mouth, and ran it around her lips, and her lips were so ticklish, she shuddered a little with the feeling of his fingers on them, the freezing cold, and she took the ice cube in her mouth with her tongue.

  She wiped the lipstick away from her wet lips with her fingers, and as he sucked the water and bourbon off the tips of his, she watched him.

  Her lips looked softer, still reddish, but full and kissable now.

  "So what do you want me to do now?" he asked.

  She leaned against his desk.

  "Whatever you want. It's your birthday present," she said.

  "What do you want to do?" he asked.

  She smiled.

  "Sit," she said.

  He sat back in his chair.

  She leaned over him in his chair, hands on both arms, she brushed his mouth with hers. He was dangerously close to that black satin bow now, and could see her ample chest about to explode out of fitted corset.

  His turn on simmered. It was strange. Psychologically twisted. Maybe it was the bourbon, but he couldn't help it. As she kneeled between his legs, as her fingers gently found the button of his pants, and even as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, he knew it wasn't going to work this way for him.

  "Stop," he said.

  He saw the confused look of hurt in her eyes.

  "I can't do this now," he said.

  "Ok," she said.

  "I have a date for drinks," he said.

  She laughed.

  "You've got to be kidding me," she said.

  He smiled and shook his head.

  "Well, ok then," she said, leaning to take her dress off the floor, her brain a roulette wheel of four letter words and different ways he could go fuck himself.

  Always the same shit. Good enough for the moment. Important for the day. Her significance fleeting and unreliable.

  And often painful.

  He stopped her hand holding her dress and dropped it back to the floor.

  "No," he said.

  "What? I don't get it," she said.

  "I want you to wait here. Dressed that way. Until I'm done and come back," he said.

  Now she really laughed.

  "Please tell me you're kidding," she said.

  "No," he said.

  And he wasn't. There was something about knowing she was waiting for him there in that outfit. Having to wait for him. It was turning him on. Somewhere inside her under being pissed off, he knew it was turning her on too.

  "Let me get this straight," she said, now sitting in his chair, crossing her stockinged leg, giving him a good view of her upper thigh, crossing her arms and giving him the same of her chest. Her high heel bounced up and down in tense irritation.

  "You want me to wait here, like a stupid idiot, after getting this whole outfit on especially for you, putting myself on the line, while you go out and have drinks with another woman, until you feel like coming back?" she said.

  "Yes," he said, smiling.

  She shook her head.

  "You're really an arrogant prick sometimes, you know that?" she said.

  "I do," he said.

  "Have a great birthday, and go fuck yourself while you're at it," she said, getting up from the chair.

  He pushed her back down in the chair.

  "Get off me, really," she said.

  He moved to embrace her and she weakened for a moment, but he took that weakness to find an unused computer cord under his desk, and before she had time to realize he'd tied her hands together, under the chair arms, behind the back of the chair.

  Now she was stuck.

  "Not funny. Untie me," she said.

  "Who's laughing," he said, grabbing his stuff from the desk.

  "You've got to be fucking kidding me. Now. Do it," she said.

  "I won't be too long," he said.

  She yelled his name.

  He ignored her and grabbed his glass and added more ice to it. And more bourbon. He found a straw and stuck it in.

  "Here," he said.

  "In case you get thirsty," he said.

  She stared at the glass and realized he was serious.

  "You realize if I get out of this cord I probably will never talk to you again," she said quietly, not looking at him.

  "Maybe for a little while, but you will eventually. And I'm not worried, because you won't," he said.

  "I hope you choke on your drink," she said.

  He laughed.

  "Well I do not wish the same on you, because no one will be around to call 911," he said.

  He leaned in to kiss her cheek and she pulled away.

  "You'll see. You'll feel better when I get back," he said.

  "Just get out. Go meet whomever," she said.

  And then he was gone.

  She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of struggling against the cord while he was there. Once she heard the door click behind her, she pulled, yanked, and tried everything to get the cord loose. Nothing worked.

  What a bastard.

  She was so angry and yet there was that little trickle. That thread running through it. That hint of turn on he was talking about. Him keeping her there, tied up, wanting to know she was there, letting his mind wander to her tied up in his chair while he was having drinks with that other chic.

  At least this was one time she knew she'd be on his mind while he was with someone else for sure.

  And then the anger came flooding back. All the effort she'd put into his birthday and it was taken for granted. There were so many times she'd felt that way over the years, periods of him not seeing her, not seeing her as anything or anyone of value, and then there were so many more times that he made her feel like she was invaluable — precious really.

  Sometimes her head was so fucked with him in it she just waned to run off to Siberia. What better time to ponder that ultimate fuckitude of her head than as she sat, tied to a chair, in a satin corset, with a ration of bourbon, by herself in the dark?

  That about summed it up, didn't it? She was imprisoned. Held captive mostly by her own head, heart and body.

  She took a sip of the drink on the desk. Might as well make the best of it.

  He was gone two hours.

  She'd vacillated from totally turned on to totally hating his guts many times over that two hours. But as she heard the door unlock, she was back to being totally enraged.

  Her arms were sore, first
from struggling, then just being in the awkward backwards position for that long. And she was thirsty. She hadn't finished his crappy bourbon.

  And to add insult to injury, he was finishing a phone call on the way into the office. He had to be on the phone with a girl. His alcohol-soaked voice was full of flirtation and promise. Both of which had been rarely spared on her, other than in similar increments to his quarter of a glass, watered-down bourbon on the desk.

  Her rage seethed.

  He finished his call and his nauseatingly sweet endearments while looking at her directly in the eye, just to make sure she heard him and he could watch her listening.

  He hung up the phone.

  "Hi," he said.

  "Do not talk to me until you untie this," she said.

  He came over to the chair and gently undid the knots, trying to take her wrists and massage them a little. She yanked them from his hands.

  "Come on," he said, smiling.

  She stood up from the chair.

  "Come on? Come on?" she asked in anger.

  "You didn't finish your drink," he said,

  "You noticed," she said, lifting it to her mouth in the darkness of the office.

  "I was saving it," she said.

  "For now?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said, and tossed the watery bottom of the drink in his face.

  He laughed, wiping it from his eyes.

  "I suppose I deserved that," he said.

  "You deserved more than that," she said.

  "If I wasn't physically opposed to touching you right now, I'd slap you across the face," she said.

  "So do it," he said.

  "I won't give you the satisfaction," she said, once again bending to get her dress off the floor. He grabbed her arms to stop her.

  "Don't," he said.

  "Don't fucking touch me," she said.

  "Wait," he said.

  Then she did slap him. Slapped him hard. And insanely found herself getting hot. Getting wet.

  Anger more at herself and her fucking weakness more than at him drove her to slap him again.

  "Come on, that's all you got?" he said.

  "How many drinks did YOU have tonight? How many did you finish while I was stuck here?" she asked.