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On the carpet
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
On The Carpet
by Donna Baker
Glen was trying -- honestly trying -- to concentrate on his boss's
words, but he was distracted by a wrinkle. The last time she had
crossed her shapely, mature calves, a razor-thin triangle of nylon had
appeared at the crook of her knee. The tell-tale fold made it more than
likely she was wearing stockings, not pantyhose. He tried not to
speculate upon what might be holding them up.
Anne-Marie sighed, uncrossed her legs, and pulled her skirt hem down
over her knees. She scooted forward to get his attention, but this made
the back of her skirt fall further down the front of her chair and
expose the lace hem of her slip to Glen's gaze, so she merely succeeded
in redirecting his focus to another fetish.
"Glen!" she called in exasperation. He looked up, blinked, and flushed.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Prestwich. Go ahead, I'm listening." His eyes leaped
from the lace-encrusted frying pan of the older woman's slip to the fire
of her shoes. A red toenail seemed to wink at him smugly through the
keyhole at the tip of her blue calfskin pump.
She could almost feel the pressure of his eyes tracing the swirling
leather pattern on her expensive heels. "Just how far gone is he?" she
thought to herself as she reached out to touch the tips of her long, red
nails to his hand.
He glanced at the brightly-polished claws, and shuddered visibly when
she withdrew them, lightly raking their sharp tips over his bony wrist.
"Please, Glen, pay attention for just one moment."
Glen forced himself to look her in the eye.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I've had a lot of trouble concentrating, lately."
He was OK as long as he looked at her face. As always, she was
impeccably groomed, with every hair in her upswept blond coif in its
assigned position. Even her lashes and brows seemed to have been
planted, hair by hair, according to a blueprint. The surgeon's scalpel
had never retouched this canvas; her vigorous good health and serene
disposition were sufficient protection from the years.
"It's your lack of concentration that brought you here, Mr. Pyle. It's
beginning to affect your work."
Her low-pitched purr drew his eyes to her full, velvety lips. She had
drafted a fine line of darkest red that followed precisely the natural
contours of her wide mouth. Her lip color shaded smoothly into bright
crimson towards the center.
The realization that his job was on the line finally cut through the
sexual fog immobilizing the young man. He shifted nervously in his
seat, and cast his gaze out the window. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Prestwich, but
my mind has been on personal matters."
Anne-Marie saw it, now. A small bump under his pants, just too far down
towards his knee to be anything in his pocket. She was now sure of her
ground. A broad smile lit her features.
She re-crossed her legs, allowing her electric blue jacquard silk skirt
to again expose her knee, though not immodestly. "Have you got a crush
on me, Glen?"
Glen found it suddenly difficult to breathe. This was NOT going right.
"No! I mean ... You're certainly very attractive, you know ..." His
face was redder than her lipstick. He mustered what resolve he had
left. "A `crush' sounds like I'm fifteen. I just ... find you
attractive, that's all."
They both knew how lame he sounded, but she disarmed him with an
apology. "I'm sorry, Glen. `Crush' was a poor choice of words. It's
obvious that you find me attractive; I seem to feel your eyes on me
almost every moment of the day. That's what I called you in here for.
"On a strictly personal level, Glen, you've been making me
uncomfortable, lately."
She flexed her ankle, noting that the motion drew his eyes downward.
Even in five-inch heels, she habitually kept her foot canted so far
forward that her toes outreached her heel. She knew far, far better
than most women how stimulating the pose was to a man like Glen.
"It seems that every time I turn around, you're right there, staring at
my shoes."
She counted to three while her words sank in, registered upon his sodden
brain, and he looked up again. His guilty pout would have been right at
home on her grandson.
"I appreciate your attention, in a way, but it's disconcerting at times.
I always try to dress well, because grooming is important to a woman in
my position. It does not follow that I am running a peep-show. You
don't seem to have this problem with the other women in the company.
What is it about my appearance or manner that you find so erotically
stimulating?"
Her bold words left Glen thoroughly flustered. His eyes took advantage
of his brain's confusion to latch upon the one part of his boss's
anatomy he'd managed to avoid so far during the interview.
Her supple shirt-dress cradled her ample breasts in individually
tailored sheaths of bright blue silk. Nobly defying the years,
magnified by her erect posture and slender waist, they stood as
monuments to the corsettiere's art.
Deft fingers of lace supported and molded her charms so expertly that
their shape, even their sway and their jiggle, matched those of an
eighteen year-old. The cunning deception included a soft panel at the
tip of each robust cup that encouraged her tumid nipples to flaunt their
arousal.
Anne-Marie saw that he was unable to answer her. She needed no dramatic
gestures to shut the net over her victim. She merely stood, smoothed
her skirt down over her firm thighs, and closed the three steps between
them. She left it to Glen to imagine that he could see the folds of her
vulva as the skirt clung to her body, or that she snapped her toes down
with each step, the better to enliven the motion of her quivering bosom.
She stopped only inches from his side. Was it the cool air entrained
with her flowing dress, or the silk itself, that brushed his arm? Or
merely her perfume, hovering at the threshold of detection?
"Glen! You're making me nervous!" She lied with perfect composure.
Anne-Marie did not incline her head in order to survey her conquest; she
preferred to look down her nose, framing her frightened prey between her
proud breasts.
"What shall I do with him, now?" she mused as he wilted beneath her
stare. She was sick of aging lotharios who wanted her money, and of
young studs who wanted the same, sick of rich married slimeballs who
wanted only another notch in their cockhandles, and of power-hungry
bastards who wanted to fuck her mind, not her body.
She smiled as she thought to herself, "I'm one of the power-hungry
bastards, aren't I?"
"I know you very well, Glen," she said. "You have an unhealthy fixation
on my body and on my clothes. There is something about me that attracts
you more strongly than is normal for a man. Your penis stiffens every
time I walk into the room."
He glanced up again at the mention of his male member. Her studious
expression surprised him. In his fantasies, she invariably was either a
smothering mommy or a ball-shredding tiger. Incredibly, he was finding
the reality of her detached interest more stimulating than his dreams!
"You're wearing a garter belt and stockings, aren't you, Glen?" It was
not a question.
The color drained from Glen's startled face. For a moment, the cold
fear clutching his gut overpowered even the nearness of his Goddess.
"Look at me when I talk to you." Her voice was quiet, even gentle. He
was already her slave. No hysterics were needed.
Glen ordered his rebellious eyes towards Anne-Marie's face, but to no
avail. Like the poles of a giant magnet, the twin towers of her
femininity exerted an overpowering attraction. Behind his closed lips,
his tongue curled, instinctively ready to suckle her prominently
distended nipples.
"All right then," she smiled, "stare at my breasts." After all, he
could do nothing else.
She continued, "The garter tab under you pants gives you away, Glen.
When you watch my skirt swish around my nylons, you're not thinking of
having sex with me, like most men. You're imagining what the cool silk
feels like against my thighs. When you admire my pumps, you're feeling
your own feet arched over their tall heels. You don't want to see my
naked body. You want to see my underwear. You want to see my lacy bra
and teddy. You want to wear soft, slithery dresses to work and wonder
why you can't. Isn't that true?"
He couldn't answer. He couldn't even nod. He could only stare at her
breasts, trying to imagine what it feels like to have a silk dress slide
over a nylon lace bra cupping your very own flesh.
"It is unhealthy for you to imagine that I dress solely for your
benefit. You believe I enjoy teasing you, and that it excites me when
you find me attractive.
"I'm sorry, Glen, but it really doesn't work that way. I know that you
fantasize about me every evening. I know that the sight of my seamed
nylons makes your penis hard, and that you will undoubtedly masturbate
tonight while you recall this very moment."
She paused to burn the scene forever into his memory. Unconsciously,
his hand was stealing towards his crotch. She uttered her next
statement with a streak of revulsion calculated to halt its progress.
"Teasing your twisted, unfortunate mind does not thrill me, Glen."
The shame that washed over him closed his eyes, but Anne-Marie knew it
would not long suppress his raging libido. She re-established her
dominance merely by turning to pick up his personnel folder. She
choreographed the motion carefully, leaning over her desk to outline the
curve of her taut, round fanny. This raised her skirt just far enough
to expose the back of her knee and promote the brief, unrealized
expectation of a glimpse of her stocking top.
She stood directly in front of him, holding the folder open beneath the
curve of her magnificent bosom, so close that her eyes and breasts were
shielded from him. He had nothing to hear but her smooth, rich voice.
Nothing to smell but her faint, sweet perfume. Nothing to look look at
but her magnificent body.
"Mr. Pyle, the conditions for your continued employment at this company
are as follows:" She shifted her weight as she spoke. At first, he
watched the sinews dance beneath her nylons as her dainty feet tensed
and relaxed. The consequent swaying of her skirt, however, quickly drew
his attention upward. A glance to verify the manila barrier between
them, and Glen shut out her voice completely. He was aware only of the
outline, presented seldom, and then but fleetingly, of her garter straps
and stocking tops.
It was the angry edge to her voice that broke his reverie; the meaning
of her words took some seconds more to penetrate. "Could you stop
staring at my crotch long enough to answer my question, Mr. Pyle?"
He was stunned by the realization of his effrontery. "I'm sorry!" he
croaked. He cleared his throat and finished, "Please, Mrs. Prestwich,
could you repeat the question?"
She knelt in front if him, put her face only inches from his, and
grasped his cheeks between her creamy smooth hands. He struggled
desperately to ignore the tingling touch of her nails and the depth of
her deep, deep, blue eyes.
"One: you will cease spending your entire working day gratifying an
unnatural obsession with your boss's underclothes. Two: you will take a
twenty percent cut in salary until such time as your productivity
improves. Three: You will accept such disciplinary action as I see fit
to impose should you violate the first clause. Do you understand and
accept these conditions for your continued employment, Mr. Pyle?"
Did he want to still work here? Even after today?
"Yes! Yes, ma'am! I accept!"
She almost smiled.
"Then get back to work."
She chose the moment he closed the door to cross her legs with a
flourish that left him leaning against the closed portal for support,
his heart pounding. He heard the click of the electric door lock that
sealed her office from further intrusions, but had no idea what it was.
"Such disciplinary action as I see fit to impose," she muttered to
herself as she drew her skirt ever so slowly up her legs. "I'll give
him until this evening to remember the phrase." She further retarded
the progress of her hem when the lacy, expanded tops of her nylons came
into view. The contrast of her red nails against her blue silk skirt
was precious to her. She found the anticipation of the first sight of
her frilly lace garter straps exquisite.
"It will prey on him this week," she thought. A deep, shuddering sigh
escaped her painted lips when she exposed the first sliver of milky
white thigh. She stole a glance at the full-length mirror that cast a
wanton reflection to her lascivious eyes. The lace-clad cunt of the
whore in the mirror screamed its siren song, and her slender digits
heeded the call.
"By Friday, he'll be crazy, wondering what `disciplinary action' means."
She trailed her sharp nails over her stocking tops, up her tender,
sensitive thighs, and raked them once -- just once -- over her white-
frosted mound. "His head will be overflowing with images of me wielding
a whip on his naked fanny, while he sucks my cunt."
She did not care to restrain her passion any longer. Thirty five years
of fine-tuned sensuality kept her in absolute control of the
consummation of her afternoon's pleasure. Her trained fingers pushed
aside layers of flimsy lace, released hidden fasteners, and unbuckled
leather straps. When free, she cradled it in her palm. As always, its
miraculous, snaking growth fascinated her.
"First, a long, slow pull," she sighed, taking a bottle of lotion from
her desk drawer, "then perhaps a nice dinner at Chez Pierre with a
pretty pink dildo snuggled up my bum." Her hand squeezed the huge,
slippery shaft of her meaty cock.
"I wonder if the little twerp has the guts to become one of us."
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