The Woman in the Office

[Whit00EK]

Ladies of the Board: If there is one among you who is interested in the sort of attention I have been known to lavish upon a woman in other posts here, please do accept my invitation to play the role of "The Woman in the Office."


What was it about her legs that so aroused long-dormant thoughts in my mind? Was it the fact that they were long; long enough to reach to her eyebrows? Was it the fact that they were tanned; tanned so that they appeared to be the color of silky maple syrup? Was it the fact that the muscles in the calves were so perfectly formed that they had that small division at the lower ridge which appeard and disappeared as she walked? Was it the fact that her choice of footwear was erotic in itself -- thin, stiletto heels with only the barest wisp of straps across the toes and around the ankle? Was it the sense of power that her thighs projected as they stretched the material of the knee-length caramel-colored skirt in mid-stide? Was it the juncture of thigh and buttock muscles that made my groin ache with a remembered warmth? Or was it simply that somewhere deep in my memory banks I had stored away the vision of the eventual journey's end for those legs -- that lovely, sweetly-scented nest of goddesses past, present and future that lies at the junction of thighs and abdomen? Was it because I had not had the opportunity, the pleasure, to taste of that proverbial nest of love for so long? Was that the reason for this indescribably delicious pain that stabs at my loins? God, I wish I knew!

I've been watching her for nearly two months now -- walking past my office door more than a dozen times each day. I've deliberately followed her to the building canteen just so I could walk behind her. I've even gone so far as to use the stairs in the morning when arriving at work and have climed six flights so that I might find myself a few steps behind and below her as she ascended. Taking those surreptitions peeks at the backs of her knees and the flash of her thighs as she moves up at a steady pace sserved only to increase the rapidity of my heart rate as I climbed behind her. What kind of fool am I, anyway? I spend little, if any, time rapturing over women's breasts as do so very many other men. It is not an avocation to make all sorts of contortionistic attempts to look down a woman's blouse when she bends forward. A bulging pair of mammary glands is not what moves the blood faster through my veins. What is wrong with this picture? Am I not a shining example of the red-blooded, American Male animal? Whatever could I be thinking to fantasize about a relationship with this long-legged goddess?

She is at least 20 years my junior. She is tremendously attractive. She most likely has a social life that I have only dreamed of for the last 40 or so years. Why do I think I might even have an opportunity to make her acquaintance?

 

[asiangal]

As a new member of the secretary pool in this large office, I get the most menial jobs. Like getting coffee, going to the supply room many times a day for staples, paper and what not, all the things that nobody else likes to do. So I go back and forth everyday, walking along the halls of this big building, and up and down the stairs. Not that I really hate it.

I love walking and I need the exercise anyway. And I like the way men look around to see who's coming when my high heels click clack on the marble tiles, and I walk past. Many men like to look at my legs, which are my best feature. They're long, slim and well toned, and I take very good care of them. I purposely wear the shortest skirts that still looks decent to accent them even more.

Why, a woman has to emphasize on her best features afterall. I don't have large breasts, and although I'm good looking, or even pretty, I'm no raving beauty. The rest of my body is well proportioned, but my legs and feet always get the most of men's attention.

I've noticed an elderly man looking at me with a kind of longing in his eyes. He must be management or something, but we've not been introduced, so I pointedly ignore him. He has never smiled at me or acknowleged me in any way, so why should I? It just amuses me that a man, who could be my father, would sometimes look at me with so much lust in his eyes.

I have enough suitors, and most nights I have a dinner date. I lunch in the office, I don't want to come back late, as I have not been working here long. I live alone in my small 9th floor apartment, just a few blocks from the office. It's a nice place, clean, with high windows and a great view.

 

[Whit00EK]

Got your point.

From the quote, I discern that I have appeared ridiculous. Sorry to have occupied the Board with such trivia.

"He has never smiled at me or acknowleged me in any way, so why should I? It just amuses me that a man, who could be my father, would sometimes look at me with so much lust in his eyes."

 

[asiangal]

OOC:
I'm terribly sorry if I offended you. That was not my intention. I was hoping that this young lady's musings do not discourage you so easily. If you would try to win me, I'm game, but if I turn you off, well, no offense taken.

 

[Whit00EK]

A response

Asiangal,

Offended? No. Confused? Yes.

I read your post as a deliberate put-down of an "elderly gentleman" and why he (of all people) would ever consider lustful looks your way. Perhaps I was a bit too sensitive about my character's age, dear one. He is old, not dead. LOL. Are you game to continue a bit of gamesmanship with this "elderly gentleman?"

Edward

 

[asiangal]

My dear Edward, of course I'm game!

-----------------------------------------
Although I may have tried to ignore the older gentleman's lustful looks, I feel strangely disappointed when I don't see him as I walk down the stairs at the end of the day. And all through my dinner date, I keep thinking of him, wondering where he was and what he was doing. For the two months that I've worked there, he has been waylaying me everyday. I would see him 'spying' on me every morning when I arrive, and every afternoon when I leave, and many times in between. So it was a big surprise when he wasn't there when I left today.

My date complained that my thoughts were not with him, and I explained that I was tired after a hard day at work, and feigned a monster headache. Sympathetically, he drove me home directly after dinner, after extracting a promise for another dinner date next week. "And after dinner, we'll have a drink at my apartment," he said. I agreed, thinking I would be able to talk my way out of it when the time comes. If this man can't keep my attention during dinner, so that my thoughts turn to a silvery haired gentleman all the time, he won't be able to satisfy me in bed, I rationalize.

 

[Whit00EK]

Shall we continue?

It had not been difficult getting into her apartment. Skills I had picked up along the way with my previous employer -- whose name and occupation shall remain undivulged at this point -- allowed me to bypass a rather flimsy lock and security system within just a few seconds of arriving in her building. I had spent more than an hour surveying the apartment itself and the surrounding area. While there were several other apartments in the building, hers was the only one on this floor currently occupied. This information was gleaned from the real estate agent whose name and office number were prominently displayed on a sign at the front of the building.

The apartment itself was simply decorated, yet displaying an artistic flair which the woman must harbor within. Her tastes were eclectic: softly over-stuffed furniture coupled with modern artworks and posters on the walls; a sinfully plush carpeting that ran throughout the entire apartment except for the kitchen -- and, yes, into the bathroom as well. The bathroom was a study in rose and beige tile and cabinetry, exuding feminitity without being cloying and little-girlish. The kitchen was as modern as any I have ever seen in magazines. Every plug-in appliance imaginable rested in a specifically-designed space or nook on gleaming black marble countertops. The kitchen walls and cabinets were starkly white and contrasted sharply with the black of the counters and tabletops. Built-in appliances such as the refrigerator and the stove were also in shiny black finishes.

Ahh, but the bedroom was the room I sought to discover. It is within the confines of these walls that one often learns most about the personality of an individual. Hers was delightful. Open, airy, beige-and-bronze in color scheme, with a bed that can only be described as incredible. A turn-of-the-century Victorian masterpiece with a huge headboard containing book nooks, and a four-poster canopy of deliciously decadent copper-hued material gathered in drapes on all four sides. I had rested on the mattress for but a moment when I reallized that this could, indeed, have been a playground for lovers in another age.

Of course, being the perverted individual that I am, I could not resist opening each of her bureau drawers and inspecting the contents. Cashmere, denim, silk, lace....all sorts of materials ran through my searching fingers. One small drawer was specifically dedicated to panties, and only panties. Bikinis, little-boy shorts, French-cuts, low-riders, hip-huggers, etc. Not one pair was of plain cotton, nor were there any outrageous thongs or crotchless devices such as we often see in magazines and window displays. Each and every pair was soft, precious to the touch, and scented with a delightfully light and lovely fragrance I did not recognize and could not name. I spent a considerable amount of time lifting each pair and studying them, imagining her wearing them to work. How many of them had she worn while I was studying her lovely buttocks from my office or from the stairs?

Replacing the panties in nearly-neat order, I searched for a collection of bras that I knew would be nearby. True to my thoughts, another drawer revealed a collection of matched and un-matched bras that would make a Victoria's Secret model weep with envy. I have never, ever, seen so many bras in the possession of one woman. There must have been thirty or more. And here, there was more variety. Full-lace cups, stretch cups, underwires, demi-cups, strapless, halters, etc. It was a veritable treasure trove of bras, each one holding the lingering scent, the name of which escaped my memory. I did, deliberately, take a moment to study the labels in several of the more beautiful pieces of material in that drawer. While there were a few different sizes -- no doubt due to variances by manufacturer -- the prevailing size seemed to be a 34C. Now, as I have mentioned before, I am most certainly not a "breast man" but the thought of these cups, now in my hands, holding her two luscious globes, did cause more than a bit of a stir in my trousers.

After taking one last look around the bedroom, I moved back through the dining area and into the living room where I moved the furniture slightly so that a huge armchair was now facing the door, but far across the room so that light coming in from the hall would not reveal who was sitting in it. I then searched for the circuit-breaker panel and found it in the bathroom. I tripped the circuits marked LR and DR and moved back to the chair to await her arrival. I knew she was on a "date" as I had overheard her discussing this evening's activities with a co-worker just today. I suppose I should have concerned myself with whether she would invite him in after he brought her home, but I was confident that she was not going to be in the mood for any further company tonight -- other than my own, that is.

As I sat there, ruminating about the possibilities that were before me, I began to assess myself as she might see me. True, I was quite a bit older than she is. True, my hair had gone white as had my beard (though I jokingly call it platinum blond). And I would suppose that she also sees the pictures of my grandchildren on my desk from time to time when she delivers something to my office. I would suppose she imagines me an "old man"......Well, her education may come as a surprise. I have maintained my fitness through daily bicycle rides (on the stationary bike when the weather is miserable) and through marathon bike-rides on week-ends, sometimes more than 250 miles in three days. I also rock-climb when the neighborhood men decide to go, and play raquetball, squash and handball three evenings each week. My heart and lungs are as healthy as a man in his 30's and my doctors are usually frustrated when I go for my annual physicals because I seem to be getting younger, rather than older. One may call it narcissistic, but I truly enjoy taking care of my body. My body has never let me down, and I shall not mistreat it.

So, this brings us to my plan for the evening. Do I plan to rape this young woman? Not in any way, shape or form. What do I plan to do? Very simply stated, I plan to introduce her to a style of love-making I am certain she has not yet had the pleasure of experiencing. The methods and the results are varied, but they all center around one thing: deliberate, prolonged pleasuring of a woman for no other gain other than to be able to view her helpless submission to the physical and emotional excesses which live inside her and which she has probably never unleased fully.

As the sunlight fades and the rooms become totally dark, I hear footsteps on the stairs and then approaching the door. The sound and pattern of her footsteps are now indelibly etched on my memory, and I realize with some relief that she is, indeed, alone.

A key slides into the lock and turns. The door opens slowly inward..........

 

[asiangal]

OOC

Whit,
Please read the e-mail I sent you.
Gal