Office Appointment

She stands to the left of the desk as one looks in the doorway. She's to the right of the executive himself. Just to the right of his right hand to be exact.

He sits behind eight gleaming feet of deeply polished rosewood, one of many fine appointments in the room. He examines the spreadsheet before him. His right hand lies extended, palm up, not touching her. Not yet.

She wears the standard dress for secretarial assistants. All black, made of fabric that looks like soft leather. The form-fitting blouse snugs against her ample breasts. A gold zipper circles around each breast. The matching black skirt reaches to mid-thigh and hugs her hips. Zippers run up the center of both the front and back panels.

His attire is his own choice. The blue-on-navy pin-striped suit boasts fine tailoring. The silk tie shimmers with bold colors strewn in artful abandon. Monogrammed gold cuff links proclaim his refinement.

She stands erect with each of the zippers unzipped. There is no underclothing. The leather that covered each breast dangles beneath, a circle of leather under each mound. The separated zipper teeth encircle them like a glow. The zippers of the skirt are open, both front and back. Only the button of the waistband holds it on. The leather skirt which was tight while zipped, pulls apart, hanging loosely on the outside of each thigh. The valley of inner thighs lies exposed.

The executive's hand lies on the desk, casually, as if he's paying no attention to the treasures within his reach, indeed, the treasures he himself just unpacked. He continues to direct his attention to the spreadsheet in front of him. He murmurs the results of formulas.

The woman tightly grips a steno pad and a pen. Her breath belies her attention. She casts repeated glances at the man's hand. She knows it will move toward her exposed portions but - when? And which is worse - the anticipation of waiting or what he will do to her once his hand does move?

His eyes never leave the spreadsheet, but his hand leaps. His fingers thrust straight into her. She grunts both in surprise and in excitement. He curls his fingers. She's pinned on a curved prong.

He moves his fingers slightly. It's more than enough. Her heated aroma wafts across the room. Her thighs shine in riverlets of slick. Her gasps come closer and closer together.

A knock at the door announces his next business appointment. With effort, she reigns in her reactions and prepares to straighten her clothes. But he doesn't let go. He holds firmly.

She turns her head from the door to him. The barest of smiles crosses his features. Still he holds her captive. Her eyes grow wide.

A second executive enters. He is Japanese - small in stature, unsmiling in countenance, older. The cut of his suit rivals that of his colleague. The gold at his wrists surpasses his. He comes with an assistant, a young Japanese man, who scurries after him. Upon entering the office, the executive makes a minute bow with his head. The assistant bows deeply.

"Mr. Tagamoto-san," her executive rises with a tip of his head, "you honor us with your presence today."

"Mr. Landall, the honor is all mine."

The Japanese walk to the area of comfortable furniture facing the desk. Mr. Tagamoto seats himself on the sofa. The assistant takes the overstuffed chair. Mr. Tagamoto makes a small motion with his hand and the assistant bustles spreadsheets and contracts from his briefcase. He arranges them on the coffee table in front of his superior.

But the assistant's eyes wander. Obviously, he has never attended a business appointment with Mr. Landall's firm before. Try as he might to keep his attention on Mr. Tagamoto's requirements, his curiosity betrays him. His expression shows equal parts disbelief and fascination.

Once again seated, Mr. Landall's hook remains gripping. The woman's breasts heave whenever his fingers flex. The young assistant steals glances their way. And he squirms with his own building desire. But the two executives conduct a productive business meeting. Mr. Landall dictates notes to his secretary and Mr. Tagamoto directs his assistant. The youngster tries not to get his hopes up for what may happen next. The secretary tries not to worry what may happen next.

The business dealings wind down. Both executives exhibit satisfaction with their arrangements.

Mr. Landall finally removes his invasive, and soaking, hand. He speaks to the secretary, "Step in front of the desk." The Japanese men sit implacably.

The woman walks around to the front.

"Bend over the desk."

Three men watch as bare tits touch the desktop. Three men watch as what remains of the leather skirt splits wider and a rounded ass protrudes. Three men stare at the dark valley revealed before them.

Mr. Landall pulls the woman's hands to the far side of the desk and flips up two clamps from a recessed slot. Her wrists are strapped down. Her breasts bulge outward. Her backside hangs exposed.

The Japanese executive rises and steps to the immobilized woman. His hand reaches into the wet crevice before him. He is professional even in these dealings, his touch sure and defined. He extracts the most response from the smallest movement. She can't see him, but she can sense the wicked pleasure he derives from the intensity of her moans.

Then, when she is preparing for the consummation of his play, the Japanese executive turns to his assistant. At first, the assistant cannot believe his good fortune. His gratitude is huge. His lower part quickly matches. A quick step, a quick zip and he plunges into the offering. His eagerness spends itself in seconds.

The older men watch without expression. The epitome of patience. When the young man drops exhausted onto his chair, Mr. Landall releases the clamps with a single push of a button. Then he goes to sit on the sofa next to his Japanese guest.

"Stand and face us."

Dripping multiple moistures, she stands and turns.

"Now do yourself."

Her eyes fly wide open.

"Oh, no, sir. Please, not that. Not - not - it's so - ," her voice fades in the force of his glare.

"Now."

A whimper escapes her lips. A blush spreads across her face.

She slides each foot further apart. She lifts her left hand to her right nipple. She lowers her right hand to her dark triangle. Her glances dart from one face to another.

They simply stare. But they do not meet her eyes. Instead, they watch her hands. They watch as her nipples begin to extend. They watch as her fingers dance between her legs. They watch as a flush spreads across her chest.

Her fingers circle and float. They settle on that one spot. That special spot, just to the left of the highest ridge. The side of her clit that engorges the rest. The side that zings electric desire througout her body. One tiny flaming spot, a flurry of feather-light touches. An avalanche of arousal.

The three men stare. They stare as her breath catches in her throat. They stare as her head arches back, her breasts thrust forward, and her body convulses. They listen to the shrill screech that fades in a series of groans. Her knees buckle. Smoothly, Mr. Landall meets her fall and lays her on the floor. There she lies, slicked skin, panting breaths.

The Japanese executive rises, snaps his fingers at his goggle-eyed assistant. He bows slightly to the American and exits the office. The assistant follows quickly, but takes a few backward glances as he passes through the doorway.

Mr. Landall returns to his chair behind the wide expanse of his desk. His spreadsheets await.

*****

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