This choice: You work to restore yourself to masculinity. • Go Back...Chapter #6You work to restore yourself to masculinity. by: Mr. George   You tug your blouse closed, still feeling the weight of the girls pulling you forward as you lean over the keyboard. Sitting at the desk, you scowl at your half-reflection in the monitor screen.
Your fingers work the tiny buttons closed, a sense of safety coming with that simple act. But, you can't imagine getting dressed without a bra, given how blessed you were. The tight short skirt distracts, you tug it lower as best you can. But it's not tailored to cover any more leg than it can.
You imagine the tread of Jack's feet getting closer and closer, until your fingers tremble too much.
Lifting them from the useless keyboard, you curl them into tiny cute fists until the quaking fades. The steadiness as you straighten your fingers feels fragile so you work quickly.
Quickly you type, and feel the reassuring confinement as your bra springs back into existence. Your feet kick as you realise what you typed, the chair spinning as you push it back from the computer. The submission grows, the sense of being a lowly secretary becoming acceptable, part and parcel of your life.
Staring at the screen, you try to make the letters re-arrange by sheer will-power. The chill of your ass pressing against the window brings you back to yourself.
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You see other changes with an abruptness that shocks you that you missed them. Finally, you snap the window closed, the tension of doing this in the boss' office too stressful. The vague memories, of leering glances, unsubtle 'accidental' brushes, as he squeezed past you in a 'too narrow' corridor, heat your cheeks. Worst was the steadying hand, as you walked down stairs in these heels. The brushing contact with your bust, unacceptable. You were perfectly steady in your heels.
Looking for your desk, outside the office, serving as his interface between the rest of the office and his workflow. You are to block unnecessary interruptions.
Gasping, you see him standing in the doorway. You bob a curtsy, as you straighten. His gaze locked deep in your cleavage, he barely notices you at his computer.
Hands once again shivering too much, you want to finish buttoning your blouse closed. But not wanting to draw any more attention to your well-displayed cleavage you flee his office.
As you expect, dread he stands in the doorway. Forcing you to squeeze by. His hands low, they brush against your skirt, as you pass. His crotch too seeming to brush your hips too.
The filthy chuckle, as he then steps inside his office only cutting off, as he shuts the door. Queasy, and tottering you drop into your seat. The answering bounce from your chest reminding you of your part of the blame. Too wantonly displaying yourself. Feeling guilty and ashamed, you button your blouse closed up to your neck. Even now the dark outline of your bra a poor choice, as you contribute to your own shame.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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