I’m a nice girl, really. I have a good job, take care of my pets, send thank you notes, give directions when asked. I am always prompt and efficient at work, and dress to impress but also to blend in. But sometimes, well, often, I get sick of being that nice girl and instead of being Allison Meadows, Official Nice Girl, who everyone tells their problems to and then looks right through me, I want to be Allison Meadows, who everyone admires and wants to find out more about. I want to be the kind of girl who turns heads, who gets gossiped about, who’s wild and reckless. Who’d dye her hair purple just for the fun and novelty of it, who’d book a trip overseas leaving tomorrow. Who’d have an affair with her boss . . .
He was completely wrong for me, on so many levels, but that just made him more attractive. I don’t just mean that he was my boss, although that was a big part of why he was wrong for me. I mean our personalities. We were total opposites, him a corporate, suit-wearing, rather quiet family guy, at home on the golf course or behind his big, imposing desk, and me a loud, fun-loving, party girl working her day job to support her art and outlandish social life. The truth is, if he hadn’t been my boss, I wouldn’t have looked at him twice. He’d have been just another guy in a suit, with no distinguishing characteristics, of no interest to me whatsoever. Those kinds of guys all tend to blur together to me, with their short similar haircuts and pasted-on smiles and neat, conservative little lives. I see them all the time – on the street, in bars, driving by in all their macho glory, and I hurry past, eager to escape to my own world where people think for themselves and attract others not with money but with wit and style. Even if one of them had the potential to be interesting, I never gave guys like that a second glance, forgiving myself the snap judgments because the few times I’d tried to chat them up or even go home with one of them, it never worked out.
He was all of those things I couldn’t stand, but he was different, at least to me. He was more human, less macho. His soft skin and pudgy belly made me want to take him in my arms. The way he treated me, kindly, with a touch of amusement, like he wasn’t my boss but my babysitter, tolerating my silly antics, like the time I hung Christmas lights around the entire office or prank-paged our most hated partner. He was soft and fleshy and sweet. Sometimes I thought of him as a curvy, sexy woman in the body of a male corporate exec.
I was his secretary, the biggest cliche in the book and, if I’m known for anything, it’s not doing the expected. But that didn’t stop me from lusting after him. It wasn’t an immediate attraction; the first week I summed him up and threw him into the same category as all the others, but his charm grew on me. In fact, the more I saw what a kind, gentle, truly nice, guy he was, a devoted husband and father, the more I wanted him. It wasn’t that I wanted to corrupt him, I just wanted a little of him to be a part of me. I wanted him to myself in the most intimate of ways for just a brief time, not to live with or cook for or do any of those wifely duties, but simply to connect with on the most intimate of levels, to know what he was like away from the office, stripped down to his purest form. It was never an affair or relationship I sought, but a capturing of his spirit, a brief taste of his body. I would lie in bed and fantasize about him fucking his wife, wondering how they did it, who initiated it. The next morning I could never look at him, had to avert my eyes at the office lest I get immediately wet upon recalling my fantasies.
It wasn’t the kind of thing I could tell anyone else at work either. It would have been frowned upon, or could’ve lost me my job but, even more importantly, nobody would’ve understood. A young, attractive, fun-loving woman interested in an older, pretty boring, not-much-to-look at guy? Dan Braxton and Allison Meadows? How could I have explained the thrill that ran through me every time our fingers touched when he handed me papers to copy, or I had to lean near him to reach something? I couldn’t even explain it to myself. Most people would probably say it was the power dynamic between us, him being my boss and all, but it wasn’t that. I could see that even though he was my boss, he didn’t have much power in our company overall. With the chain upon chain of command and useless corporate titles, he didn’t really measure up. But it wasn’t his stereotypically bossy behaviour that drew me to him, it was precisely the opposite – his kindness, his understanding, his way with people. He was like a sweet little boy offering me a dandelion, and that endeared him to me. I didn’t want him to enter my world, or me to enter his; we wouldn’t have fit in or felt comfortable. I wanted to take both of us to some other kind of world, away from the pressures of the office or the drama of home life, to a purely innocent place where we could tear each other’s clothes off and claw at each other for an hour or two, then put ourselves back together and return to our regularly scheduled lives.
I finally made my move at his annual holiday party. I didn’t plan it in advance, in fact I almost didn’t go to the party, but I finally ended up going, after digging up a perfectly low cut v-neck sweater and cute short black skirt and telling myself I wouldn’t even go near him (but I wanted to look good just in case). Seducing him would never have worked if I’d planned it out too closely; when I plan things precisely, one little snag throws me completely for a loop. I figured I’d see what opportunities presented themselves.
He had no idea of my infatuation. I kept it safely confined within my mind and bedroom, and nobody else knew or even suspected, so that gave me some cover to spy on him covertly across the room. At the party I chatted with all the guests, played with his kids, feasted on the delicious spread of meats and fish and desserts and delicacies. I also had a few glasses of wine to calm my jitters at the thought of talking to him, alone. It was my deepest fantasy, but that’s what made it so nerve-inducing.
After dinner, most people drifted outside to smoke or enjoy a brief breath of the chill winter air. I noticed that he was sitting alone in the living room enjoying his dessert, while everyone else was outside. I walked over to him, making sure I stared directly into his eyes. “Want some champagne to go with your cake?” I asked smoothly. I wanted him to look at me like a woman, a potential lover, not just a convenient waitress. At his nod, I went back into the kitchen and poured it, the cold liquid fizzing in the fluted glass. Before heading back to the living room, I tugged my shirt down slightly, providing an even better view of my cleavage. This is it, I thought. I walked back to his seat on the couch, but instead of handing the glass to him, I stood directly in front of him, leaned over so my cleavage was right in his sightline, and looked intently into his pale blue eyes. I handed him the glass, making sure our fingers touched. If someone had come by at that moment, I would have turned around and taken a piece of cheese from the tray on the table, and in the process given him a nice view of my ass all shoved into my short skirt. But everyone was too busy talking and chatting and didn’t really want to make small talk with the boss anyway.
“Where’s your bathroom? The one down here is full. Maybe you could show me where the one upstairs is.”
“Okay,” he said a bit shakily, putting down his plate and draining his glass. “Follow me.”
He led me up the lavish carpeted staircase, and down a long, sumptuous hallway. When we reached the top of the stairs, I deliberately sped up so that I bumped into him. “Oops,” I said as my breasts brushed against his back. I stepped back and continued walking quietly. At the end of the hallway, he opened a door, flicked on the light and said, “Well, here it is.”
I stepped into the doorway and grabbed his hand. “Please stay with me.” He looked at me sceptically, obviously torn between escaping my crazed plan and joining the others, and following through on my taunting dare.
“I really shouldn’t,” he said, with very little regret in his voice, as his eyes zoomed up and down my body. He shut the door and leaned back against it.
“Excuse me,” I said, as I gently rolled down my panties and lifted my skirt before sitting down on the toilet. I started to pee, the liquid making loud splashes against the silence of the room. Suddenly, I didn’t know where to look. A little of my bravado left me, and I looked down at my toes.
“You’re a pretty wild girl, do you know that? I can’t believe you brought me up here to watch you pee.”
“Well, that’s not exactly true, you know. You can’t actually see me peeing, can you? Besides, I have better things for you to do while you’re up here.” I stood quickly, wiped myself, and pulled up my panties. I walked over to the sink and began washing my hands. He walked over and planted himself behind me, grabbing my waist and pulling me towards him. I could feel his hard cock pushing up against my ass, and let out a little moan. As the water washed over my hands, he pushed himself against me, rubbing his cock against me.
“Feel what you’ve done to me. I had to follow you up here or else I’d have been sitting there eating my cake with this huge hard-on. What are you going to do about that, little girl?”
I turned around and brought my wet hands up to his face. “Are you sure you want me to do anything about your hard-on, Mister Braxton? You have all those guests down there waiting for you.”
“Oh, I’m very sure. I want to see those pretty little tits you’ve been teasing me with all night.”
“So you noticed, huh? I thought you were immune to my charms. Is this what you’re looking for?” I asked, placing his hands under my shirt so they cupped my breasts. His fingers quickly found my hardened nipples and began pinching them. I spread my legs farther apart, sinking down a little lower, leaning back against the sink. He brought one of his hands under my skirt, fingering me through my flimsy panties.
“I’m not immune, darlin’. You’re very cute, of course I noticed that, but I don’t make it a practice of fucking around on my wife, nor of messing with my employees. And I didn’t exactly think a pudgy, boring old man like me would be your type. But since I apparently am, sweetheart, I’ll make an exception.” His fingers became more insistent and my breath came faster and faster. For a “boring old man,” he certainly knew what he was doing, expertly working me in a way I thought I’d have to rely on myself for in the immediate future. Most guys I’d been with thought fingering was something obligatory they needed to do before sinking their dick into me, whereas Mr Braxton seemed to get off on how wet he was making me, his face a mixture of amusement and determination. When I was looking at it, that is; I soon had to close my eyes as the pressure became too much for me. My face started to contort and I felt on the verge of coming, but I grabbed his hand and pushed it away. This wasn’t the right time for me to come, for me to lose myself in him. I sensed that if I let him continue, I’d never get him out of my system, despite my wishes for a hot one-time fling. I wanted to fulfill my fantasy my way.
“Not now, I don’t want to come now. No offence meant by that – in fact, it’s because that felt so good that I need to stop for a minute. There’s something else I’ve been thinking about; I want to have some fun with you.” I brought my hands up to his chest and pushed him backwards towards the bathroom wall. Then I lifted his shirt and began undoing his belt buckle, moving in slow motion so I could savour every moment. I could see his cock straining right underneath me, big and solid beneath the denim. I paused to stroke it, then went back to the belt, alternating in a way that was clearly driving him crazy. He stared down at my mischievous hands. Finally I’d reached the piece de resistance, his zipper. I slowly unzipped it, smiling at the quiet sound of the teeth sliding against each other. I got down on my knees on the coral tiles and tongued his cock through his briefs. It moved slightly, almost jumping towards me. He groaned and grabbed for my hair. My pussy was starting to ache the way it does only when I come in contact with the perfect cock, but I continued with my mission. I pushed his pants down to his ankles and then slowly lifted the waistband of his briefs, unveiling a rather large cock. “Mmmm,” I moaned as I looked at its impressive size, its pink, smooth bulging skin, everything I’d imagined and more. I licked the tip, tasting the slight saltiness, the warmth and softness there as I held the hard shaft of him in my hand.
Then I ran my tongue up and down the length of him, while his hand remained on my head. I sat up a little, opened my mouth and slowly brought it down around the first few inches of his cock. I could feel his cock stiffen even more and I sucked on it before letting my mouth slide down so more of him could enter me. I started rocking back and forth, my knees in rhythm with my mouth as I moved up and down the length of him. I placed my ankle between my legs, my pussy pounding against it every time I rocked backwards, torn between bringing a hand down to my clit and fondling him. I leaned back, rubbing my ankle as hard as I could against myself, while bending his cock slightly away from him and sliding my mouth up and down along its delicious length.
I know some girls find it a chore, but for me, sucking a man’s cock is sometimes even better than sex, one of the most sensual things anyone can do. I like the way it tickles my throat, the way it works its way into the crevices of my mouth, the way I can smell and taste every morsel of him; nothing else allows me such sensory overload, such pure, raw, indulgent sex. I moved slowly, wanting to prolong the pleasure, and felt a few tears slipping from my eyes; part happiness, part something that often happens when a cock is pressed all the way inside my mouth, as if it’s pushing out the tears to make more room. I cried from the beauty of it, from the sheer joy of having him hard and helpless in front of me like that, at my mercy every bit as much as I was at his. My cool, competent boss, this friendly people-person who could command a room of hundreds without a microphone, reduced to his throbbing cock and the need to have it down my throat. I smiled a little, as much as I could in that position. I could hear him stifling his moans, and making a tortured sound when I’d manage to get his entire cock inside my mouth, its tip stroking the back of my throat and my lips brushing against his pubic hairs. I wrapped my hand around the base of his cock and held it there, bringing my mouth up and down, slower and slower, then faster and faster, trying to figure out which he liked better. Then I began sucking in earnest, pulling him into me with my mouth, relaxing so I could go as fast as I wanted. I rocked faster, gliding up and down the slick surface of his dick, sliding my lips along his delicate skin, until he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “I’m gonna come,” he managed to say before his come burst into my mouth in a fast, hot stream, making almost a direct pathway down my throat. In one quick swallow, it was gone, and I leaned against his hip, both of us panting, slightly dazed and awed.
We sat silently for a few minutes, breathing, recovering, then stood up and smoothed our clothes. Once that moment passed, and we moved away from each other, it hardly mattered that we were in the same room; we’d never be quite that close again, and we both knew it. I splashed some water on my face, toweled off, and looked at him, feeling incredibly tender and unsure of what would happen next. He went downstairs first, and I followed a few minutes later. Nobody seemed to have noticed we’d been gone, and I went home with only my body’s memories of our encounter.
By the next holiday party, I had thankfully moved on to another company, one where nobody held quite the attraction of my old boss. We didn’t keep in touch after I left, but I did get a holiday card from him that year. “May you enjoy this holiday season as much as the last one,” he wrote, and I imagined his cock hardening as he wrote the words and relived the memory. I never saw him again.
Every Christmas I think of our might-have-been brief bathroom fling, the one I was too much of a “nice girl” to ever truly follow through with (the closest I got was kissing his cheek), and it never fails to turn me on.