Introvert Extrovert a Partnership
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Getting One Over On My Boss Part 1 Of 3 free porn video
This is a fantasy story a friend asked me to write about her. We hope you'll enjoy it.
It is in 3 parts. Here's the first. Please feel free to comment.
If you'd like a fantasy story written for you, please contact me!
Have fun.
Beach………..
I knew, from the moment I walked into the room for my job interview, that she was going to be a tough boss.
Five years ago I believed I could crack her, soften her, humanize her but I was wrong. I couldn’t find the code to unlock that cold outer crust. That frosty glare. That aura of authority.
Firm but fair is what my new colleagues told me back then. Ok, I can cope with that. Firm, that is to be expected of a manager and fair is a given. You can’t show favouritism, must treat all as equals.
She had a quirky, sarcastic, biting manner. If she was attempting humour, she failed. At interview the HR Manager introduced me, ‘This is Chris Harper, Customer Services Manager. Chris will….’ ‘Christine Harper’ she interrupted, holding out a hand. A firm handshake. Business like. Eye contact all the time. A pregnant pause. Must be my turn to speak…
Finally, I blurted ’Pete Beech. Nice to meet you’.
‘Peter, please take a seat’ she said.
Peter? Only my grandma calls me Peter! Oh I get it. She’s introduced as Chris and comes back with ‘Christine’. Formal, I thought. Even for an interview that seemed too stuffy for someone so young. And now I’m Peter.
Chris, sorry, Christine Harper is a very striking lady. Elegant. Needs little or no make up. Sometimes just a touch to soften or, highlight her striking bone structure. Not overdone. Hair always immaculate, never out of place. More often than not, worn up.
A head turner. Certainly. Mid-thirties I reckon. Christine Harper commands authority. Demands authority. Oozes authority. Oozes sexuality. Just out of reach sexuality.
A good height too, not too tall. A reasonable heel accentuating the toned but shapely calves and well cut skirts frame and shape her thighs magnificently.
Yes, well cut skirts. Tight on the hips. A good line. Nice, business like length. Crisp white cotton, shirt style blouses. Bright silk blouses. Pastel coloured Jersey tops. Never too revealing but showing off her firm, gym-toned figure perfectly. Skin tone bras. Nothing loud, nothing tarty. Simple, elegant pieces of fashion jewellery but never any sign of an ankle bracelet, inappropriate piercing or tattoo.
Her eyewear is always business like but fashionable. Changed regularly, at the amusement and bemusement of her staff, many of whom doubt she even needs spectacles. They are more an accessory to the persona and ambition she clearly, blatantly displays.
No VPL. Many of us have looked. Oh, how we’ve looked. How we’ve studied that beautiful derrière. How we’ve gazed longingly, pondering her round but firm globes for sign of panty lines. The risk of being caught ogling, unimaginable. Worth it though. Whatever the punishment, it was worth it. After all, what is it they say…’if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime’ !
Stockings, undoubtedly. Not tights. The book on the suspenders versus hold ups was amassing a tidy sum. The lads and, it is rumoured, at least one lass, on the 2nd floor offices each adding 50p a week to the beer kitty just for the pleasure of a few moments drooling, sorry careful studying of the boss’s thighs as she strutted through the open plan offices. The big money on hold ups, though there are those convinced they’ve seen the outline of a suspender clasp under her skirt.
Once a month we all headed for the pub after work on a Friday. There was kitty money to be drunk. The boss was always asked along, but never turned up, claiming ‘that rugby lot are always in there. It’s far too noisy’ We proposed other venues, but no, she wasn’t going to play.
The money on Christine Harper shaving her pussy bald as a coot was stacking up too, though a couple of guys in accounts were convinced they saw ‘what can only have been a light tuft of pubes’ under a pair of skin tight light grey slacks. Trousers so tight there can not have been room for any form of underwear beneath them. Trousers so tight that every crease and fold was clearly visible for all to see. And we saw. We certainly saw.
And she knew very well that we saw the very shape of her, apparently, bald quim. The softness of her sex lips. The slit of her most sexual, her most intimate and private place so clearly, so blatantly on view. The camel toe. Every minute, square millimetre of it.
The view from behind equally as exciting. Those slacks hugged the curves of her backside so closely. The sway of those hips kicked up a gear when there was a baying crowd.
Thongs. Strings? Perhaps nothing? Commando. That’s it. After all, she was the Commander. Herr Kommandant, to those brave enough to voice the cruelest of nicknames and pronounced in whispers more like Her Kummandant. Never in earshot, though I’m sure she knew. She knew everything.
Walking through the offices, so close I could smell her perfume, her scent, her musk. So close yet so far, this cold, yet highly sexual woman would always have a put down for someone, often, no make that usually, me. Good old Peter Beech.
‘Peter, your top shirt button appears to be undone’
‘Peter, those files I ask for’ what files ‘I want them on my desk in 5. Okay?’
‘Peter, you have cleaned your shoes this week, haven’t you?’
‘Peter, you do know the customers can hear you smile on the telephone, but nobody wants to see that silly schoolboy grin on your face. Now, phone your next customer and get them to double their order this week!’
Schoolboy grin! Yes, and if only she know what I’d been thinking……..
Firm, but fair.
Firm but fair but ambitious. Firm but fair. Ruthless and willing to tread on anyone, and I mean anyone, to get where she wants to be. Seemingly not worried about a fall from grace. Christine Harper was going all the way to the top.
She kept long hours. None of us knew why. None of her direct account customers opened for business at seven in the morning. She outstayed even the most conscientious of us. I tried once but reached a point of great hunger and extreme boredom and left the office at 6.30 one night. Christine Harper still at her desk, seemingly up to her pretty eyes in work.
Was she seeing someone who worked at our offices? Was she even married? Nobody seemed to know. There had been a very occasional mention of ‘Tom’ but there were no rings, no lamenting about holidays, no photos of ‘him’ or any k**s. No talk of dinner dates, wedding bells or romantic weekends. No one had ever picked up any vibes from this frostiest of iron maidens.
Curiosity got the better of me. Twice a week I went to the gym for an hour before showering on arrival at the office. We have access to showers and changing facilities adjacent to the warehouse and packing hall, a short stroll from the office block so I could shave, shower and freshen up, grab some breakfast and still be at my desk for 8:30.
One Thursday morning I decided to do some road running, rather than visit the gym. I ran to the office, stayed in my running gear but instead of making for the amenities block I went straight to the second floor. If anyone saw me, I’d simply make an excuse that I was getting my spare locker key from my desk on the way back to the showers.
06:50. Christine Harper’s company car pulled up. She swipes her security card, the main door clicked open and she ascended the stairs with a determined spring in her step. I peered through the smallest of gaps in the Gents door. She headed for her desk, unlocked the drawers and carefully picks out a manila folder, holding it tightly to her heaving chest. A deep breath, quick glance round and she’s moving again.
She passes me. Seems focused. On a mission. She turns at the end of the corridor. I slip out of the toilets and follow her, still in my running shorts and vest, still with the back up that I’m heading for the showers. My heart is pounding. I can cover that, I think to myself, I’ve been running!
I round the corner just in time to see her entering one of the conference rooms. I hear the door being locked. Making my way slowly, quiet as a mouse I arrive at the door she has just disappeared through. This meeting room is the one with video conferencing facilities.
More than intrigued now, I carefully put my ear as close as I dare to the solid wood door. Floor to ceiling windows fill the outside wall of the corridor, which overlooks the staff and visitors car park. Thankfully at just before 7:00 in the morning there are not many arrivals but I sensed I only had a minute or two.
I heard nothing. Then cupboard doors being unlocked and opened. More silence.
Curiosity aroused but survival imperative, I carried on along the corridor and walked across to get showered. I spent ages under the hot pulsing water, hands massaging my face, water cascading off my head. What in god’s name was she up to?
Seven in the morning. Why seven? Our Canadian sister company are what, 5 or 6 hours behind us so they won’t be keen on a conference call at one in the morning. Surely our customers can be contacted throughout the ‘normal’ working day.
And anyway, why the secrecy? Why lock the door?
I squirted a lake of Mint & Tea Tree shower gel into the palm of my hand. My head was spinning, my heart thumping and my cock….my cock started pounding. ‘Oh my God!’ I yelped. I was getting a hard on at the thought of getting one over on Herr Commandant.
With one hand smothered in gel, cupping my aching balls, the other found my pulsating cock. With a blizzard of creamy froth surround my midriff I pumped and yanked on my thick tool for all I was worth, imaging for a moment she’d dragged me into that conference room, ordered me to strip and masturbate in front of her.
My knees almost buckled as I came one huge fat wad of hot spunk. I felt exhausted, dizzy, breathless and hot. I turned the water to cool, then cold and spent a further five minutes under the chilly, powerful spray
I dressed. Ate breakfast, and made my way to my desk for 08:15.
Tbc………..
It is in 3 parts. Here's the first. Please feel free to comment.
If you'd like a fantasy story written for you, please contact me!
Have fun.
Beach………..
I knew, from the moment I walked into the room for my job interview, that she was going to be a tough boss.
Five years ago I believed I could crack her, soften her, humanize her but I was wrong. I couldn’t find the code to unlock that cold outer crust. That frosty glare. That aura of authority.
Firm but fair is what my new colleagues told me back then. Ok, I can cope with that. Firm, that is to be expected of a manager and fair is a given. You can’t show favouritism, must treat all as equals.
She had a quirky, sarcastic, biting manner. If she was attempting humour, she failed. At interview the HR Manager introduced me, ‘This is Chris Harper, Customer Services Manager. Chris will….’ ‘Christine Harper’ she interrupted, holding out a hand. A firm handshake. Business like. Eye contact all the time. A pregnant pause. Must be my turn to speak…
Finally, I blurted ’Pete Beech. Nice to meet you’.
‘Peter, please take a seat’ she said.
Peter? Only my grandma calls me Peter! Oh I get it. She’s introduced as Chris and comes back with ‘Christine’. Formal, I thought. Even for an interview that seemed too stuffy for someone so young. And now I’m Peter.
Chris, sorry, Christine Harper is a very striking lady. Elegant. Needs little or no make up. Sometimes just a touch to soften or, highlight her striking bone structure. Not overdone. Hair always immaculate, never out of place. More often than not, worn up.
A head turner. Certainly. Mid-thirties I reckon. Christine Harper commands authority. Demands authority. Oozes authority. Oozes sexuality. Just out of reach sexuality.
A good height too, not too tall. A reasonable heel accentuating the toned but shapely calves and well cut skirts frame and shape her thighs magnificently.
Yes, well cut skirts. Tight on the hips. A good line. Nice, business like length. Crisp white cotton, shirt style blouses. Bright silk blouses. Pastel coloured Jersey tops. Never too revealing but showing off her firm, gym-toned figure perfectly. Skin tone bras. Nothing loud, nothing tarty. Simple, elegant pieces of fashion jewellery but never any sign of an ankle bracelet, inappropriate piercing or tattoo.
Her eyewear is always business like but fashionable. Changed regularly, at the amusement and bemusement of her staff, many of whom doubt she even needs spectacles. They are more an accessory to the persona and ambition she clearly, blatantly displays.
No VPL. Many of us have looked. Oh, how we’ve looked. How we’ve studied that beautiful derrière. How we’ve gazed longingly, pondering her round but firm globes for sign of panty lines. The risk of being caught ogling, unimaginable. Worth it though. Whatever the punishment, it was worth it. After all, what is it they say…’if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime’ !
Stockings, undoubtedly. Not tights. The book on the suspenders versus hold ups was amassing a tidy sum. The lads and, it is rumoured, at least one lass, on the 2nd floor offices each adding 50p a week to the beer kitty just for the pleasure of a few moments drooling, sorry careful studying of the boss’s thighs as she strutted through the open plan offices. The big money on hold ups, though there are those convinced they’ve seen the outline of a suspender clasp under her skirt.
Once a month we all headed for the pub after work on a Friday. There was kitty money to be drunk. The boss was always asked along, but never turned up, claiming ‘that rugby lot are always in there. It’s far too noisy’ We proposed other venues, but no, she wasn’t going to play.
The money on Christine Harper shaving her pussy bald as a coot was stacking up too, though a couple of guys in accounts were convinced they saw ‘what can only have been a light tuft of pubes’ under a pair of skin tight light grey slacks. Trousers so tight there can not have been room for any form of underwear beneath them. Trousers so tight that every crease and fold was clearly visible for all to see. And we saw. We certainly saw.
And she knew very well that we saw the very shape of her, apparently, bald quim. The softness of her sex lips. The slit of her most sexual, her most intimate and private place so clearly, so blatantly on view. The camel toe. Every minute, square millimetre of it.
The view from behind equally as exciting. Those slacks hugged the curves of her backside so closely. The sway of those hips kicked up a gear when there was a baying crowd.
Thongs. Strings? Perhaps nothing? Commando. That’s it. After all, she was the Commander. Herr Kommandant, to those brave enough to voice the cruelest of nicknames and pronounced in whispers more like Her Kummandant. Never in earshot, though I’m sure she knew. She knew everything.
Walking through the offices, so close I could smell her perfume, her scent, her musk. So close yet so far, this cold, yet highly sexual woman would always have a put down for someone, often, no make that usually, me. Good old Peter Beech.
‘Peter, your top shirt button appears to be undone’
‘Peter, those files I ask for’ what files ‘I want them on my desk in 5. Okay?’
‘Peter, you have cleaned your shoes this week, haven’t you?’
‘Peter, you do know the customers can hear you smile on the telephone, but nobody wants to see that silly schoolboy grin on your face. Now, phone your next customer and get them to double their order this week!’
Schoolboy grin! Yes, and if only she know what I’d been thinking……..
Firm, but fair.
Firm but fair but ambitious. Firm but fair. Ruthless and willing to tread on anyone, and I mean anyone, to get where she wants to be. Seemingly not worried about a fall from grace. Christine Harper was going all the way to the top.
She kept long hours. None of us knew why. None of her direct account customers opened for business at seven in the morning. She outstayed even the most conscientious of us. I tried once but reached a point of great hunger and extreme boredom and left the office at 6.30 one night. Christine Harper still at her desk, seemingly up to her pretty eyes in work.
Was she seeing someone who worked at our offices? Was she even married? Nobody seemed to know. There had been a very occasional mention of ‘Tom’ but there were no rings, no lamenting about holidays, no photos of ‘him’ or any k**s. No talk of dinner dates, wedding bells or romantic weekends. No one had ever picked up any vibes from this frostiest of iron maidens.
Curiosity got the better of me. Twice a week I went to the gym for an hour before showering on arrival at the office. We have access to showers and changing facilities adjacent to the warehouse and packing hall, a short stroll from the office block so I could shave, shower and freshen up, grab some breakfast and still be at my desk for 8:30.
One Thursday morning I decided to do some road running, rather than visit the gym. I ran to the office, stayed in my running gear but instead of making for the amenities block I went straight to the second floor. If anyone saw me, I’d simply make an excuse that I was getting my spare locker key from my desk on the way back to the showers.
06:50. Christine Harper’s company car pulled up. She swipes her security card, the main door clicked open and she ascended the stairs with a determined spring in her step. I peered through the smallest of gaps in the Gents door. She headed for her desk, unlocked the drawers and carefully picks out a manila folder, holding it tightly to her heaving chest. A deep breath, quick glance round and she’s moving again.
She passes me. Seems focused. On a mission. She turns at the end of the corridor. I slip out of the toilets and follow her, still in my running shorts and vest, still with the back up that I’m heading for the showers. My heart is pounding. I can cover that, I think to myself, I’ve been running!
I round the corner just in time to see her entering one of the conference rooms. I hear the door being locked. Making my way slowly, quiet as a mouse I arrive at the door she has just disappeared through. This meeting room is the one with video conferencing facilities.
More than intrigued now, I carefully put my ear as close as I dare to the solid wood door. Floor to ceiling windows fill the outside wall of the corridor, which overlooks the staff and visitors car park. Thankfully at just before 7:00 in the morning there are not many arrivals but I sensed I only had a minute or two.
I heard nothing. Then cupboard doors being unlocked and opened. More silence.
Curiosity aroused but survival imperative, I carried on along the corridor and walked across to get showered. I spent ages under the hot pulsing water, hands massaging my face, water cascading off my head. What in god’s name was she up to?
Seven in the morning. Why seven? Our Canadian sister company are what, 5 or 6 hours behind us so they won’t be keen on a conference call at one in the morning. Surely our customers can be contacted throughout the ‘normal’ working day.
And anyway, why the secrecy? Why lock the door?
I squirted a lake of Mint & Tea Tree shower gel into the palm of my hand. My head was spinning, my heart thumping and my cock….my cock started pounding. ‘Oh my God!’ I yelped. I was getting a hard on at the thought of getting one over on Herr Commandant.
With one hand smothered in gel, cupping my aching balls, the other found my pulsating cock. With a blizzard of creamy froth surround my midriff I pumped and yanked on my thick tool for all I was worth, imaging for a moment she’d dragged me into that conference room, ordered me to strip and masturbate in front of her.
My knees almost buckled as I came one huge fat wad of hot spunk. I felt exhausted, dizzy, breathless and hot. I turned the water to cool, then cold and spent a further five minutes under the chilly, powerful spray
I dressed. Ate breakfast, and made my way to my desk for 08:15.
Tbc………..
Julianne
- 08.06.2020
- 16
- 0
