New Sexcretary (Fertile Pleasures Book 2) Read online

  And yet today, it was nothing like that. The NewLife offices were authoritative. They were sacred. They were wonderful, but something to be feared. When she had entered today, she felt like she was four years old and coming to church for the very first time, when God was real and he was watching and he was judging.

  She had dressed appropriately. Or at least, she had tried. For a job so serious, an opportunity so real, it made sense to her to dress conservatively. She wanted to put on her best pantsuit, or maybe a sturdy dress that covered her arms and legs completely. It would be able to set her apart from the other girls, let the Man in charge know that she was serious.

  So, she very deliberately put on a pair of pants. Except, when she was done dressing, she found herself wearing a tight cream colored pencil skirt. Undeterred, she took the skirt off and decided on the dress instead. The problem was that the skirt remained on her body, and when she thought she had finished sliding on the dress, she had on a smashing pair of four-inch stiletto heels.

  They were bright, cherry red, matching her lipstick. Her hair was arranged in elaborate, sexy waves, like a beach bombshell, and her blouse was one size too small, which meant that wearing a bra was out of the question. The lines would show. She had to go without (all the bras she tried on were incredibly itchy anyway, for some reason), and that meant her tits now bounced freely in her tight blouse with the top few buttons undone.

  She looked absolutely heartbreaking in the outfit—as in, heartbreaking for passers-by. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had dressed like this to impress someone very specific, and that his heart (and it would be a Him) wouldn’t be broken at all.

  “What don’t you understand, dearie?”

  Mandy was still taking that motherly tone with her, despite not being any older than her.

  It didn’t help that Mandy was dressed rather more provocatively than the day before. Her blouse, if it was possible, had become even tighter. It was definitely more sheer, the fabric soft and clingy. And it was undressed all the way down to the middle of her sumptuous tits, revealing a healthy expanse of cleavage that still rivaled Francesca’s own. It was hard not to stare into the healthy, bouncy valley of her breasts.

  Francesca had never thought of herself as a lesbian before. In fact, she very rarely ever thought of women as attractive as all. They mostly were competition for attention—the kind of attention that brought the rewards from men that Francesca loved.

  But ever since coming into this office...that had changed.

  There were so many beautiful women—and they were everywhere. They were warm, and smiling, and exuberant, and their skirts were tight and short, and their heels so tall, and all of them with such long thick hair and smoky eyes, promising all manner of erotic delights if only Francesca had the gall to propose something to them...

  “Dearie?” said Mandy, sliding her ringed fingers across her cleavage, catching Francesca’s eyes. “What is it you don’t understand?”

  How about, thought Mandy, why I need to jump your bones so hard that we’ll both be out of commission for a week?

  She tried to recall her original confusion. This was a confusion in itself—there was a great deal that her mind had trouble making sense of lately.

  “Yesterday,” Francesca protested, “you had me alphabetize this pile. Now you want me to scramble it? Why?”

  “Because that’s what Mister Stout wants, dear. Is there a problem?”

  What Mister Stout wants. She felt weak in the knees. It was what a Man wanted. What the Man wanted.

  Somewhere, deep in her brain, she had a very firm grasp of the fact that she had a boyfriend. But he seemed...rather distant, didn't he? Not pressing. Not as real as Mister Stout.

  She licked her lips, breathing hard. Unbeknownst to her, her nipples began hardening, and her fingers slid over her blouse, unbuttoning a button so that her level of tit-covering matched Mandy’s.

  “No. There’s no problem. None at all.” She smiled, trying to match the incessant, eager cheer that Mandy sported. She could feel herself getting happier as she smiled. Like there was some kind of Pavlovian response happening. “And if I do well...you’ll tell him?”

  “Yes, dear. Of course I will.”

  Mandy stepped forward, sliding a hand onto Francesca’s hip. Francesca’s lips parted slightly, a moan escaping her suddenly.

  “In fact,” said Mandy, smiling coyly. “I’ll be sure to tell him all about you.”

  She gulped. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re looking so beautiful today, Francesca. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about good you look.”

  “Oh. Well I...I mean, I just want to fit in. Everyone’s so...so pretty...and...”

  Mandy stepped very close now. Her scent was intoxicating. Francesca found her so pretty. Like a close friend, or...even better, like an older sister.

  Yes. Like a hot older sister who teaches you how to kiss when you start wondering about boys. She takes you into her bed and you do practice make-out sessions for hours, only they’re not just practice, they’re something more. And your pussy gets all wet and your thoughts get so confused, but it’s the good kind of confused, the sort that makes you ache for days, and—

  “Such a beautiful, beautiful girl,” said Mandy, stroking Francesca’s face. She shivered with delight. With need. “Do you want to know what I think, Francesca?”

  “Yes,” Francesca breathed.

  Their lips were so closer together. Mandy had such pretty, pretty lips.

  “I think you’re looking pretty for Him. I think you’re aching to meet Him. Aren’t you?”

  Francesca nodded. That was true. That was so true. Of course she was looking pretty for Him. There was no other reason for a girl to look pretty other than to make sure a man knew that she existed, that she was just a decoration for his enjoyment. No other reason at all.

  That was why she wore tight blouses and tiny skirts and tall heels, to be an ornament. An object. To be noticed and appreciated for her physical qualities alone. Because her mental qualities? Those barely existed. Her thoughts were fixated entirely around loving, serving, and adoring cock anyway.

  Cock, or the kind of cunt that the Cock endorsed. Like Mandy...

  Mandy was so fucking pretty. Francesca’s breaths were mostly moans now. Her panties were moistening, the folds of her pussy slick and hot.

  “That’s so, so good. I’ll let him know. And then...his eyes will be all over you. He’s already been asking about you.” Mandy’s lips brushed against her ear now. Their breasts touched, rubbing up and down on each other, both pairs of nipples so very hard. “Asking so many questions. So many naughty, dirty questions. Wants to know your name. Wants to know what you like. What you’re like. What should I tell him, dearie?”

  “I...I...oh fuck...”

  Mandy’s hand slipped up onto Francesca’s thigh. It was soft and gentle, but firm. It moved ever upward, pushing up past the barrier of her skirt easily and sliding up toward her panties. They were moist. Fuck that, they were wet, and getting wetter.

  “Should I tell him you’re a good girl, Francesca? Would that be the truth?”

  “Y-yes!” Francesca nodded intently. “Y-yes, please Mandy, tell him that! Tell him...tell him anything you like!”

  Mandy clapped her hands merrily. “Super! That’s so great to hear.”

  The beautiful blonde stepped back, all sultriness gone. All seduction evaporated. She returned, with no ceremony, to being the bubbly, somewhat vapid office manager.

  Francesca was left hot and confused. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed this—to see if it had even happened, this crazy erotic dream that didn’t feel like it could have been real. Certainly Mandy wasn’t acting like she had just been in the middle of seducing her.

  “Now,” said Mandy. “You’ll need to get to work, yes? Mister Stout likes his good girls to work hard.”

  Francesca nodded, gulping. “Work hard,” she said, voice barely audible.

 
; * * * * *

  Sometime in the afternoon, more of Francesca’s senses returned to her. She had been trying to file, but it was really quite hard. All she managed to do was create a strange, disorganized pile.

  Which, she knew, was sort of the point of what she had been asked. But at least she had been planning on making a stack. What she had made was more of a mess, files every which way, falling out of their folders and sliding over one another. Sometimes the paper crumpled.

  It was funny. She tried to read one or two of the pieces of paper, but found it incredibly difficult. From afar, she thought she could make out certain similarities between the pages—as if they were all the same piece of paper, copied hundreds of times over and only differentiated by being put in folders with different letters on them. But when she moved herself close the paper, brought it right up to her face, all the words began to vibrate and swim, making her feel sick.

  Could she not read anymore?

  When was the last time she had actually read something? Actually gone out of her way to enjoy a book?

  Did she even like books? They were such manly things. Why would a girly girl like her ever want to read a book?

  These questions, for some reason, were making her cunt burn with need. All morning long, she had noticed the other girls unable to stop touching themselves. The one across from her, Candy, would stuff a few files away and then push herself into the wall of her cubicle, touching her breasts madly and moaning.

  “Sir...please...please...”

  Or at least, that’s what Francesca thought she heard. But that...that didn’t make sense. Filing papers didn’t get anyone hot.

  And yet after an hour of making an elaborate mess, her thoughts muddled and spiraling again and again about how big Mister Stout’s cock must be, and what it must feel like inside of her body, Francesca was touching herself too.

  The touches were small at first. Hot little grasps of her tits here and there. A tweak of her nipple. Pushing the edge of her chair into her crotch, just up against the pulsing, aching bud of her clit.

  But then she became more intricate in her touching. She lost minutes and minutes at a time.

  Candy, red-haired and smiling, approached Francesca after noticing the gorgeous young brunette unable to even touch a file without helplessly moaning.

  “Just use the washroom, babe.” Candy’s voice was soft and sugary, like a chocolate truffle sliding against a silk pillow. “We all use it. It’s really nice, actually.”

  Francesca didn’t have to be told twice. She wasn’t supremely practiced in walking in heels in such a tight skirt, and certainly not when she was more aroused than she ever had been in her entire life.

  Once inside the bathroom, she stuffed herself into a stall. It was the first time she had actually been inside. The tops of the toilet seats were covered in plush leather, the sides of the stalls covered in the same. There was a small loveseat in the corner of the room.

  Her fingers slid up past her skirt, pushed aside her panties, and rushed up into her cunt with gusto.

  “His cock,” Francesca moaned. “His fucking c-co-cock!”

  Right away, she came. Her body rocked back and forth in the stall, legs flailing wildly, her head pushing against the cushioned sides of the stalls as she released the hot wave of bliss igniting every atom in her core.

  “Fuck...” she said, her voice low. “F-fuck. Never...n-never cum like that before...”

  From outside the stall, she heard the restroom door open. There was a clack-clack-clack of heels rushing to a stall, and almost right away Francesca heard the unmistakable schlucking sound of fingers sliding into a sloppy wet cunt.

  “His c-cock.” The woman’s voice sounded almost pained, she was so turned on. “His fucking...all that...massive...cock!”

  Francesca, somewhat surprised at how aroused she was getting just listening to a woman cum—and cumming to apparently the same mental image that she had cum to—hurriedly exited the bathroom.

  This was scaring her. Something was...something was happening here. She just couldn’t make out what it was, not entirely. It felt dangerous. It felt...

  Well, dangerous was sort of sexy, right?

  Yeah, dangerous was real sexy. So whatever was happening was sexy.

  Sexy was fun. Maybe she oughtn’t to worry at all. After all, she was a smoking hot babe. Worry looked bad on her. No casting agent would want to hire some worried girl. They wanted bright, beautiful, happy girls.

  The post-orgasmic haze that her brain was deluged inside of made her want to take a long happy nap on the bathroom's loveseat, but that just wasn't responsible. She had work to do—all that filing.

  Stepping back out into the main office area, she noticed a large commotion. All the women had gathered into a crowd, surrounding someone she couldn’t quite see. They were cooing and cheering, clapping, letting out happy greetings coated in lust.

  But none of them—not a one—spoke above a heated whisper. It was surreal.

  “Hello, Sir.”

  “So happy to see you, Sir.”

  “Thank you for being here, Sir.”

  “Sir, may we please take your coat?”

  “May we serve you in your office today, Sir?”

  “Do you need a good girl on her knees in front of you, Sir?”

  The figure in the middle—who Francesca immediately and irrevocably knew as the Man—held up a hand. All the whispers ceased immediately. Total control.

  “That’s all I need for now, ladies. Ginger, come with me.”

  The chosen beauty—a petite brunette with a heavy pair of tits and an elegant sway to her hips—let out a small, muted squeal of delight. Enough to let everyone know she was thrilled, but not so much to be grating on the ears of the Man.

  Mister Stout.

  Francesca couldn’t get a good view of him. Once the crowd dissipated, he had disappeared into his office.

  Suddenly she was more turned on than she had been before. Everything was so strange to her, so awfully strange. Why was she so fucking horny so constantly? Just two days ago, she had been bemoaning the fact that she hadn’t had an orgasm in over a month. Coleman certainly hadn't been able to help her in that department. She had been ignoring him the past day or so. He didn't seem...important.

  It had been so hard to actually work up the will to get herself horny enough to cum.

  And now, in less than twenty-four hours, she had cum as many times as she had in the last year.

  Her brain felt like mush. And somehow, someway, this Mister Stout was at the center of it all. Francesca felt a strong, almost irresistible urge to return to work—to go back to her filing. It was important work, and it was so important that she do it.

  But...

  But...she had to speak with him. He had all the answers. He was the Man, after all. He would know what was going on. He would know what to tell her.

  Just...just so she could feel calm.

  She approached the door of his office. All the other girls had returned to work, filing and cooing and touching themselves as they went. Every few moments, one would run off to the bathroom. Their soft cries of delight could just barely be heard over the hum of the air conditioning and the florescent lights.

  Slowly, feeling positively scandalous, she nudged open Mister Stout’s door. She didn’t know why she was nudging it open, being so clandestine. Wasn’t the idea, after all, to speak with the man?

  She should have knocked the door with authority. She should have stormed in and demanded answers. She should let him know that she was not some common floozy like the rest of these harlots, and that he would treat her with the respect she had earned as a woman in the world.

  She would do that right now.

  The door was heavy, and as Francesca nudged it forward, pushing only with her fingertips, she felt her mind becoming ever more tired and sluggish. Inside, she heard a soft dialogue.

  “Yes, Sir. Stroking your cock is my duty and my pleasure.”

  “Good gi
rl. And how is the new one fitting in?”

  New one. Were they talking about Francesca? She nudged in further.

  Now she could see him.

  He was an unassuming sort. Cute, after a fashion. His build was average, his face average, his features average. And yet...yet...

  Yet Francesca’s heart pumped so fast she thought she might die right then and there. Her veins felt like they were pumped full of jet fuel. Her body twisted in on itself, but in a soft, pleasant way, the way a blanket would give way before a pillow thrown at it.

  He was so handsome. He was everything. It was hard to even make out what he was saying, he turned her on so fucking much. And yet she knew she had to pay attention to him. Listening to his words was so important.

  “—in the washroom earlier. It’s all according to schedule.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “She must be a very good girl, then. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a girl so good. So fine. So gorgeous. She must be very proud of herself. And I know she must do her work so very, very well.”

  Ginger didn’t have a chance to respond. Mister Stout took hold of her head and lowered it down onto his cock. Francesca couldn’t see the shaft—that Holy relic, that Needed Object—but god did she want to.

  His head lolled back. Ginger’s head bounced happily up and down. She was a very pretty young girl. Her lips were wet. Her hair was dark and glossy. As she sucked him, her fingers slid up her tiny skirt and pushed into her cunt.

  Francesca felt herself doing the same. It was so easy to play along. She even opened her mouth, moving her neck forward and back, miming the sucking of that magnificent cock.

  And as she did, her clit rubbed against the door frame, using the pressure there to send pressure up and down every nerve Mister Stout had said that she was gorgeous. That she was doing her work so very well.

  She was plainly visible in the doorway. And yet somehow Mister Stout paid no notice to her. It was so dirty to touch herself like this. So naughty. And yet she couldn’t help herself. He was so fucking amazing, so handsome and perfect, and everything a good girl like her really needed.

  “Good girls cum when Daddy does,” said Mister Stout. “I’m going to cum down your throat, Ginger. Going to fill your good girl throat up.”