CHAPTER ONE

 

At 4.30 pm. on Friday afternoon, Sylvia Lorel arose from her desk, fluffed up her hair, smoothed her skirts and took the main folder into her boss.

Mr. O.K. Kaye glanced up when she entered and smiled. "Letters to sign? Good. Let's have them."

She pranced smartly across his office and around his side of the desk. She trod delicately on the extra high-heeled shoes she'd put on that morning. Her short pleated skirt twitched saucily.

He cleared a space on his desk and she set the down the folder.

"Time races," he told her as he reached for his pen. "I didn't realise it was so late."

She stopped, her breast almost nudging his cheek as she opened the folder at the first letter. He read and then scribbled his signature. At the same time his free hand slid smoothly up under her skirt. Sylvia caught her breath.

She'd come to Mr. Kaye nine months ago when his personal secretary married. He was a good boss with an infectious cheerfulness and a charming personality. On her very first day he'd made a pass. She'd expected it; but not quite so soon. As he'd signed the first letter his free hand had slipped around her waist and his fingers had rested lightly upon her hips. The gesture was so natural and friendly it would have been prudish to slap his hand away. As she'd turned up the next letter for signature she'd prepared to put him in his place when he made his next move. But he made none. His fingers did not stray. And when the letters had been signed he'd looked up at her with his engaging smile and said cheerfully: "That's all for today, Sylvia. You can finish now if you like." She'd left his office half-persuaded his caress had been inspired by his warm nature and that she'd come close to making a fool of herself.

Every time he'd signed letters that first week his finger had rested lightly upon her hip, a warm, slightly possessive gesture that made her feel she was one of the office family. It wasn't until the second week that the companionable hand rested a little lower down. Each day it was fractionally lower until by the end of the third week it rested squarely upon her buttock. It was then he massaged gently as he signed letters. She'd realised then that this was the pass she should spurn. But it seemed so absurd. All week she'd accepted his hand upon her haunch. It was ridiculous to object because his fingers had now merely kneaded gently. She wasn't a prude, and he'd been careful not to offend her dignity. And his strong fingers moving rhythmically upon her buttocks were quite pleasant. Without thinking she'd flexed her thigh muscles in response to his kneading.

He'd been more patient than she'd thought possible. It was another month before his hand had kneaded her buttocks under her skirt instead of outside it. By then, the action was a warm sociable intimacy and a regular feature of office routine. She'd stopped beside him with her breast nudging his cheek, while he signed his letters and caressed her bottom. He never spoke of the caress and in all other respects their relationship was quite formal.

But since then eight months had elapsed.

This Friday, when Sylvia placed the letters upon his desk, she braced her legs apart and caught her breath in anticipation.

His hand slid in naturally between her legs and his fingers were feather-soft as they whispered up her inner thighs and travelled straight to the target. The base of his thumb nestled cosily within her crevice, pressing firmly and rolling slightly from side to side to burrow more deeply. She writhed her loins accommodatingly, settling upon his hand until despite her panties, her love-lips parted and pleasingly straddled his hand. He scribbled his signature, she whipped away the letter and confronted him with the next. His blue eyes raced over it and his hand see-sawed teasingly. It was very pleasant and she circled her hips, bearing down, to make her sensations sweeter.

"Make a note, Sylvia. If this man Bodkin doesn't pay within a week, I'll write him a scorcher!"

She made a note. "He never does pay until we write a strong letter."

"Well, that's business, old girl." He glanced up, his cheek brushing her breast. "I expect we've got a similar reputation with some firms."

His see-sawing hand was delicious. He used a rhythm that was deeply stirring. Sometimes, when he had a lot of letters to sign, she left his office quite breathless. And when she was in the mood, as she was today, her thoughts were daring. What would it be like if ...! But he was married; he wouldn't start an affair. But he obviously liked her. Was this as far as he dared to go? Did he need encouragement! But how? He already knew his advances weren't discouraged. His see-sawing hand faltered slightly and failed to press upon the exact spot with the right rhythm; she bore down on his hand just in time to correct its movement. Then she flexed her knees, taking more weight upon her toes. She loved his warm, stroking hand and the tingling pleasure it sent through her. Her nipples were so taut that they were almost painful. But a nice pain. They thrust hardness against her blouse and she hoped he'd notice. Perhaps, when he glanced up and saw them ... she'd love him to kiss her breasts. But it would be difficult in the office. Yet if she didn't wear a bra and wore a button blouse ...?

"I hope I haven't up-quoted Bradley too heavily," he commented as he signed. "I don't want to lose his business."

"We've quoted only two percent higher than last year," she pointed out. "Since then prices have soared."

"I hope you're right, old girl."

It was dreamy having him work her up. She was sticky inside and really in the mood today. If this went on much longer she'd wet her knickers. And it was going on! He was re-reading a letter and thinking about it.

"All right," he said finally, as though he'd been consulting her. "We'll send the letter anyway and see what happens."

"Very well," she said faintly.

He looked up quickly, suddenly remembering, his cheek brushing against her hardened nipple but not noticing it. "It's Friday! Conference day! You'd better remind the boys!"

"Will they need reminding?" she asked faintly.

"We'd better make sure."

"Very well." There was a telephone on the desk in front of her. Her cheeks burned as she lifted the receiver. "Mr. Glock's office," she told the switchboard girl and as the caressing hand moved with increased subtlety she wondered if the switchboard girl would ever guess!

"Mr. Glock," she said crisply, "this is to remind you about the five-thirty conference in Mr. Kaye's office."

"I hadn't forgotten," barked Harold Glock, and hung up. He was always irritable when interrupted.

She made four calls. Tom Blake was the last. As usual, he sounded lost and distracted. "What's the time now, then? I mean ... I'm in the middle of this job now."

"It's five minutes to five." She realised twenty-five minutes had flashed past, flexed her knees lightly and raised up higher on the balls of her toes. She'd have been off balance if the hot hand between her legs had not given her support. "You've more than half an hour," she told Tom Blake. She replaced the receiver and dreamily closed her eyes. The pleasure was almost unbearable. Her panties were a crumpled wisp of stickiness.

"Remind me to write Goodwin on Monday." She made the note in a dream. If he realised how close she was to a climax!

He signed the last letter. She closed the folder and gathered it up. The rhythmic friction of his hand was slippery delight.

"Anything else, Mr. Kaye?"

"That's the lot, Sylvia. Gather the boys together and usher them in when it's time."

"Very good. Have a nice weekend, Mr. Kaye."

"You too, Sylvia. Enjoy yourself."

It was all so pleasantly formal; the secretary and her Boss. As though neither knew his hand was up under her skirt and rubbing away until her knees were trembly. The next move was hers. The Boss had dismissed his secretary. But his hand stayed where it was. She had to make the effort, turn away and walk around his desk as though she didn't know the back of her skirt lifted high when it was drawn over his hand. The door seemed a million miles away. She walked to it carefully, certain his eyes were riveted upon her, but determined not to betray her discomfort. Although it wasn't discomfort yet, because to the stickiness was still hot. It was only when opening the door that the stickiness cooled. She flashed him a quick glance; but as always, his head was bowed as he scribbled industrially.

She dropped the letter folder on her desk, snatched up her handbag and stepped out into the corridor. As she walked towards the Ladies the stickiness turned to ice-cold discomfort. She mastered an impulse to waddle as though she'd wet her pants. But the discomfort lasted only a few seconds, she consoled herself as she bolted herself in a cubicle and hung up her handbag. She raised the hem of her skirt and tucked it inside its waistband. She was still excited. He'd really got her going. It wasn't merely that he'd been at it longer than usual; it was so exciting having him do it while she spoke to me on the telephone. She always finished up a little sticky, but rarely like this. She eased down her knickers and leaned against the wall while she raised on foot, and then the other, passing the garment over her high-heels. She examined it and tingled. The gusset was coated with glistening love-juice. Well, it wasn't surprising. She was in the mood and he'd put her even more in the mood. She braced her shoulders against the wall, parted her legs wide and delicately wiped between them with her panties. Her aroused desires hadn't cooled and fingering this sensitive area re-aroused her strongly. She glanced at her wrist-watch. She'd have to be quick. Very quick! But she was on the boil already. She closed her eyes and stroked herself, teasing the ultra-sensitive spots. She stroked lovingly and realised at the same time that what she really wanted was hot skin touching hot skin, without the frustration of undies. Perhaps she was too reserved. Perhaps he was longing for the day she took in his letters without wearing knickers. But could he expect it? Knickerless, she wouldn't dare sit down while anyone was in the office. But it would be nice to bend over his desk and feel his hand slide up between her legs and go straight to it, without resistance. His fingers could play, stroke, caress and fondle, inside and outside. She imagined it vividly and frictioned vigorously. She was panting and the muscles of her loins jerked spasmodically. She was almost there! She visualised his hand under her skirt, stroking beautifully, while he ripped open his flies. She couldn't see it because her back was towards him, but she sensed him jerk it out. Then the hot fierceness probed between her buttocks with a hot, slippery thrusting. She whimpered because he wouldn't be in time; because before the thrusting was deep enough she was gripped by powerful, body-shaking spasms.

It was some minutes before her heart ceased pounding. She opened her eyes. Her head swam, that really had been one and all her own work. Now she really was sticky. She wrapped her panties around her fingers and wiped carefully. She certainly was in the mood. She was drooling like a wildcat and it was running down her thighs too. But time was speeding by. She wiped herself dry, wadded up her panties and stuffed them in her handbag. She shook down her skirt, stepped out of the cubicle and inspected herself in the mirror. She was delightfully flushed and her eyes were melting. Her knees were weak too, but she couldn't loiter.

Tucking her bag under her arm and with her head held arrogantly high, she marched back along the corridor, high heels rapping crisply.