It was warmer in the elevator than the hall, but as was so often the case, the brush of the silk blouse over my otherwise bare breasts kept my nipples rigid. It was all men who filed in after me; I could feel their eyes run over me as they entered. I could imagine what they saw: the heavy press of my breasts against the taut white silk, the long stretch of my legs down to heels entirely too high to be appropriate for work. Looking away, I couldn’t keep the blush from my cheeks. This is how he wants me to feel, reminded myself. Exposed. Ashamed. Desired.

I shook my head, bringing myself back to reality and threatening the pins that held my thick auburn hair in a tasteful coil at the back of my head. Just then Pete Townsend entered the car, somehow squeezing his tall lean body through two layers of men to push up against my right side.

I hate Pete Townsend. But I didn’t bother pulling away as he brushed his hand against the back of my thighs, just below the hem of my skirt. It never did any good.

"What floor?" A tall young man asked, the last to enter the elevator. He was looking directly at me.

"22, please," I responded in a tight voice. Several of the other riders spoke after me, but I was too distracted by the movement of Pete’s hand under my skirt. He cupped my right cheek, his fingertips searching into the cleft of my ass and lower, finding my pussy lips inside of the lace boyshorts I wore. Thank god I wore panties today, I thought.

Despite the barrier of lace, my tightly closed thighs, and my hatred of the man, I could feel my cunt twitching and growing hot against Pete’s probing finger. I did my best to act normal, even holding my breath to keep from gasping. But when I took my next breath I could smell my sex, hanging heavy in the air. I couldn’t be the only one.

Here I was, the scent of my pussy permeating the confines of the elevator, surrounded by strange men. Every movement and small noise they made became about me. I could imagine them growing hard in their pants, starting to breath heavy. Any minute now they would turn on me, lust in their eyes, tear my clothes, violate every hole—


We were at my floor. No-one moved out of the way as I exited, forcing me to graze them with tits or ass as I maneuvered out of the elevator, tugging my skirt back down over me ass and the my damp panties. A few followed onto my floor but I ignored them as I strode quickly past the reception desk and into the relative quiet of my office.

I threw my purse down and sat trembling in my chair for a brief moment.

"Miss Cranston?" I jumped at the sound of his voice over the intercom.

"Y-Yes sir?"

"Bring me a coffee and a Sprite, please"

I wondered all the way to the cafeteria and back why he wanted that Sprite.

I knocked politely on the heavy wooden doors before entering.

"There you are," my boss said while I entered.

There was a young man on his couch, who couldn’t be more then seventeen, although the breadth of his shoulders belied his youth. I passed him to place the coffee cup on the coaster on Mr. Shaver’s desk.

"The Sprite is for my son, Travis," he said, motioning to the boy on the couch without looking up from his desk. I took it to the young man, smiling at him despite the fact that he seemed unable to look up from my chest.

Travis mumbled a thank you as he took it, and I turned to face Mr. Shaver.

"Would that be all, sir?"

"No, actually," he replied, looking up from his papers. His eyes brushed over my chest and back to my face. I stayed expressionless, waiting for his next order. "Bend over, Miss Cranston."

My lips dropped open. "Sir?" I asked, glancing from the young man on the couch to his stone-faced father.

"Turn around," he replied, his voice getting tight with anger, "and bend over. Pick that skirt up while you’re at it."

I did as he asked, slowly, reluctantly…every part of me feeling awkward and confused. I turned so my ass faced him and the boy was on my left side, and I bent over, pulling my skirt up around my waist so he could see the peach lace panties, the vivid wet spot over my crotch.

"Miss Cranston," I heard his voice float over my shoulder, stern and unwavering. "What did I tell you about Mondays?"

"You’re very stressed on Mondays, and I shouldn’t wear a bra or panties," I replied dutifully.

"So why are you wearing them, Lilly?"

"I feel naked without them, sir."

"That’s how I want you to feel."

"But sir, Pete—" I stopped abruptly. It was a bad idea to justify myself. Better to take my punishment and move on. But it was too late. I heard Mr. Shaver’s chair creek as he leaned back, his heels hitting the desk, one bye one.

"Continue, Miss Cranston," he said. I heard him light up a cigarette.

"Pete Townsend always feels me up in the elevator, sir. I---I don’t like it when he puts his fingers in me."

"That’s no excuse," he said sternly, "Now take off those panties and come here."

Cool air rushed over me as I pulled the panties down, kicking them off with one heeled shoe. I walked to my boss’ desk and bent over it. The skirt was tight enough to stay up around my waist for the walk and as I bent over. Mr. Shaver sat up in his chair and stroked the curve of my ass. I kept my eyes forward, trying to keep an expression off my face while meeting the eyes of Mr. Shaver’s young son. He looked both embarrassed and aroused, his cheeks flushing and hair starting to cling damply to his forehead.

"Have you ever touched a pussy, Travis?" Mr. Shaver asked his son while absently moving to probe my cunt with his fingertips. He didn’t enter me, just scraped his well-manicured fingers back and forth across the smoothly waxed lips, spreading the moisture I was helpless to stop. It took his son a moment to reply.

"Nuh-No sir, Kristen only lets me touch her tits." With that Mr. Shaver slapped me hard on the ass with his large hand, low enough to make my pussy and upper thighs string and draw a gasp from my lips, and then once again leaned back in his chair, feet on the desk.

"Well, come give it a try."

He didn’t have to offer twice. Travis practically ran across the room, his long strides eating up the carpet. I could feel his presence at my back before he touched me; one finger sliding tentatively over my sopping slit, hot and throbbing from the recent slap.

"Jesus boy, she won’t break. Do what you want."

There was a soft thud as he dropped to his knees on the floor, and then I felt his breath against me and my thighs were roughly pulled apart by hands nearly as big as his father’s. I barely kept my feet in my comically high heels. I turned my head to the side and watched my boss’s face while his son explored me.

He was no longer tentative in the least. I could feel his hot breath on me while he cupped my ass cheeks with his palms and used his thumbs to spread open my pussy lips, opening my pink flesh to his sight.

"Wow," he said as he drove one thumb into me unceremoniously. I tensed a little and he shoved the other one in, using both to spread my unprepared pussy as far as he could. "Does that hurt?" he asked.

"Answer the boy," Mr. Shaver ordered after I continued to stay silent under his son’s exploration.

"Yes. It hurts."

He stopped pulling and put just two fingers in, twisting and curling them inside me, feeling my insides, drawing out more of my juice, which was quickly soaking his hand starting to run down my thighs.

"What about that?" he asked.

"No," I replied absently. Suddenly my focus wasn’t on the too-young man probing at my pussy but on his father, who was picking up the phone and dialing three short numbers. An extension.

"Morning Pete," he said in his business voice. "Thank you, yes I’d like you in my office ASAP. We have something to discuss. Sure, finish your meeting, ten minutes would be fine."

I let closed my eyes and let my forehead fall to the desk. It was going to be a long morning. Just then I yelped as Travis boldly rammed his wet thumb into my asshole.

"How about that?"

"Yes!" I replied. It hurt worse coming out; I could feel the flesh of my sphincter turning out slightly as he removed his thumb. Mr. Shaver wasn’t that fond of ass play, I wasn’t used to it. Yet.

"I wanna see her tits," Travis told his father as he stood up and stepped back from me.

"Well, show the boy your tits," he ordered, finishing his cigarette and stamping it out in an expensive black ashtray.

I stood up and turned around. My blouse that day was the high-necked type that buttoned halfway down the back. I unbuttoned as far as I needed and tugged the blouse down over my breasts, making them jiggle as the tighter collar part moved over the mound of my breasts to rest at my waist and elbows. The bottom was still tucked in and the cuffs buttoned tight at my wrists, and could I move my arms from my side; the effect was a little like being bound. I would know.

"Wow," the boy said again. He reached forward and took my breasts in both hands, feeling their weight and resiliency, digging his fingers in a little too hard. "How big are they?"

"36 D," I replied, not waiting for his father to order me to do so. I’m proud of my breasts. Full and heavy, with dark rosie-brown nipples; years of being diligent in wearing a bra left them high and tight despite their size. Twenty-two and I’d never gone a day without good support since I’d started developing in sixth grade. Not a day until I worked here, anyway.

That’s how Pete Townsend found me: naked except the bunch of clothes at my waist and my high heels, standing dutifully while a teenage boy squeezed and bounced my tits in his hands. It was amazing how fast his face went from shock to excitement.


--Thank you in advance for any constructive criticism or kudos :)

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Pub: 24 Mar 2024 08:32 UTC
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