I’ve just acquired a new secretary, Ms. Fox. She wears cat’s-eye glasses that make her look kind of bookish, and she is always well dressed.

Ms. Fox is the consummate professional, going about her duties with purposeful stride and little chitchat. When she’s on the phone, she gets right to the point; she arrives at meetings just as they begin and leaves the minute they conclude. Once would easily assume Ms. Fox to be the type of career woman who would never mix business with pleasure. She is always been polite yet noncommittal, with a manner that says, “I don’t dislike working with you, but we are not friends.”

One day, Ms. Fox came into my office with some papers, and I complimented her on her new outfit. “Oh, this is from Victoria’s Secret. I love their clothes,” she said. It was the first bit of personal information she had ever shared with me.

Several days later, Ms. Fox was again delivering some papers to me. In one hand she carried the little pink-and-white-striped bag that clearly came from her favorite store. I said, “Did you pick up something on your lunch hour?”

She smiled and said, “Yes, they’re having a sale. I can’t leave that store without buying something.” And away she went.

Why would she have come into my office carrying that bag? Her desk is right outside, so she could just as easily have dropped it there before coming in. She wanted me to see it.

Later that day, I stopped by Ms. Fox’s desk. “I saw the ad in the paper,” I said. “Victoria’s sale is on bras and panties. I’m guessing by the size of the bag that you didn’t buy a Japanese kimono.”

Again she smiled, even let out a slight giggle. “No, not a robe,” she said. “Just underwear.” But the rest of our conversation that day was purely professional.

The next morning, as I was stumbling over a particularly difficult problem, Ms. Fox came in with the morning mail. “Excuse me,” she whispered, “May I ask your opinion about something?”

“Of course,” I said, “How can I help?”

“Well, I normally buy bikini underwear, but recently I’ve been concerned that you can see my panty lines.” She turned around and lifted her sweater to her waist. “What do you think?”

What was I to do here? Was she coming on to me? Was she honestly interested in my opinion? I took a shot at honesty: “I’m afraid that I can see the outline of your panties. Have you ever considered wearing a thong?”

“I have lots of thongs, but I never considered wearing them to work. That’s what was in my bag yesterday.”

“I spent a long weekend remembering what Ms. Fox’s beautiful ass had looked like.”

I still wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, so I tried to sound objective. “Somebody would have to be looking for it to see your panty lines,” I said, “but if it bothers you, why don’t you try wearing a thong and see if anyone notices?” She agreed that it wouldn’t hurt to try. For the rest of the day she returned to her professional demeanor, and did not bring up the subject again.

I spent a long weekend remembering what Ms. Fox’s beautiful ass had looked like on Friday, imagining what it would look like in bikini panties, or better yet, in just a thong. I admit that thinking about it made me a little stiff, if you know what I mean. By the time Monday rolled around, I couldn’t wait to see what Ms. Fox would be wearing, and if she’d ask me for my opinion again.

When she came in with the mail, she hit the door with her elbow and it closed almost all the way behind her. It wasn’t entirely shut, and any colleague would feel welcome to walk right in, but it wasn’t entirely open either, so passersby could not see inside. “Good morning,” she said lightly. It was not normal for Ms. Fox to trade pleasantries. She put down the stack of mail and turned to leave. Not wanting to waste the moment, I said, “No panty-lines today — What’s different?”

She turned back toward me. “I’ll show you,” she said. She took a couple of steps toward my desk and she reached for the waistband of her pants. Ms. Fox always wore slacks; she has long legs and a shapely ass that would be a shame to cover with a flouncy dress. I couldn’t tell exactly what she was doing at first; then I realized she was unbuttoning her slacks. She glanced at the door, then pulled down the zipper and yanked the waist open, giving me a clear frontal view of her panties. “I took your advice,” she said, turning quickly and tugging the waist to reveal a lavender thong.

I struggled to retain my composure, managing to get out, “That certainly seems to solve the problem.”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you for the idea.” The she leaned in, and put a finger to my lips “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

With that, she stood up and took a couple of long strides to the door, her pants still hanging open. She peeked into the hallway, and when she was satisfied that nobody was around, closed the door. Just as purposefully as she’d gone to the door, she strode back, and placed her lips firmly against mine closing me in with each of her hands gripping the arms of my chair.

Without breaking the kiss, I muttered, “Do I get to see the rest of that thong?” She didn’t respond verbally, but still holding her lips to mine, tugged her pants down over her butt. Then she stood up, and did a little pirouette to show off her underpinnings. The thong had a lacy front and ran high over her hips, accentuating her legs and that fabulous ass.

Her fingers went to the collar of her blouse and fumbled with the button nearby. Given her taste in clothes, I assumed Ms. Fox would have a matching bra, but as she undid the buttons of her blouse, I could tell she wasn’t wearing any bra at all. I couldn’t take my eyes off her and I couldn’t speak, but that was okay. She didn’t need any encouragement. When all the buttons of her blouse were open, she came and sat on my lap, kicking off one shoe, then the other, then pulling off each leg of her slacks. Now my secretary was sitting on my lap in nothing but a blouse and thong; how many bosses dream of this very thing?

“The thong had a lacy front and ran high over her hips, accentuating her legs and that fabulous ass!”

Ms. Fox put her arms around my neck, and kissed me again. I was beginning to get a bit of a tent in my pants. Soon she was shifting around on my lap, helping it right along. She traced her fingertips over my jaw and down my chin, took my tie in her hand, then ran her hand down until it was in my lap. Without hesitation she placed her palm squarely over the bulge, which instantly turned into an unmistakable hard-on. I slipped one of my hands under her blouse, ran it up her belly to her chest, and placed it flat between her breasts. I could feel the swell of each breast on either side of my hand. Ms. Fox grasped my erection through my pants as I cupped her left breast.

Playtime was over. The expression on Ms. Fox’s face went back to one of professionalism but the task at hand was neither typing nor filing. She had a job to do, and would not be deterred.

She stood up and went for my belt buckle, pulling it open in a second. She undid my pants and yanked down the zipper. She reached into my boxers, pulled out my throbbing cock, and stood there with her hand around my erect penis, looking very intently at it. When she was satisfied that it was hard enough to do the job, she guided me into her as she sat on my lap.

The feeling was tremendous. Her pussy was as hot and wet as if I’d been licking it for an hour, and I slid right in. The sudden pressure, heat, and moisture were like an electric shock to my dick and made it even harder. Ms. Fox let out a groan followed by a sigh as she took in the sensation of my pole deep inside her. I could feel the muscles of her cunt spasm around me.

Finally, we both rocked back and forth so that my cock eased in and out of her just about an inch or so. I held on to her hips and watched her ass go up and down. Pulling tight, I whispered, “Get on the desk.”

Ms. Fox stood up. She tore off her thong, sat on the edge of the desk, and put her feet on my chair while I pulled down my trousers and shorts. As she spread her pussy lips with her fingers, she groaned, “Oh, yeah, put that cock in me. Fuck me now.” I pressed the head of my dick against her pussy, rubbing up and down a few times to spread her wetness. “Do it. Fuck me!” she commanded. She was really quite impatient.

I pressed the entire length of my shaft against her slit. Her hips were involuntarily moving in time with me. Finally she’d had enough teasing. She took my cock in her hand and plunged it into herself.

There really wasn’t anything I could do at that point, except go along for the ride. I bucked my hips into Ms. Fox as she rocked back and forth on the desk, her hands braced on the edge for leverage. I was really pounding her pussy with my cock, both of us grunting and groaning with each stroke.

When my pumping quickened, she put a hand on my neck and pulled me closer, “I want to feel your come splatter on my tits,” she whispered, as she leaned back, pulled open her shirt, and cupped her hands under her breasts. I kept humping her until I felt my balls tingle and I knew I was close to coming. When I couldn’t restrain myself any longer, I pulled my twitching prick from her cunt, climbed onto the desk, and straddled her stomach. She took my cock in her hand and stroked it feverishly, propping herself up on one elbow to watch, as her hand flew back and forth over my cock.

When the first blast hit her chest, she smiled. My cock kept pumping stream after stream of hot come onto her tits while she jacked me off. When I had finished and she was satisfied that she’d pulled the last drop from my cock, she let go and lay back on the desk, covered with my creamy come.