Xenon Business Practice
I reach out and goose my secretary’s pert butt.
Penny the very personal assistant is an exquisite perk of embracing Xenon philosophy whilst in their employ.
She squeals, her candyfloss-pink fingertips spasm and the flimsi detailing my next meeting slithers across my Mahogany desk and flutters to the floor. She arches, presenting her ample chest to my inspection, flashing her tits but not her bra. Because she isn’t wearing one beneath her tightly wrapped mini-dress.
“Please...” she whispers, her voice thick and sweet as honey.
Spock-like, I raise one eyebrow. Please what, Penny?
She folds smoothly to her knees, my hand on her arse holding the hem of her dress still as her toned body slides down and out of it. Need dyes the dusky pink cotton of her panties magenta, and the pungent smell of it assails me.
“Please fuck me,” she murmurs, her baby-blue eyes appropriately downcast, although I suspect it’s lust, rather than propriety, that locks them to the hardness tenting my crotch.
I expect her to earn her pay on her feet, not on her back or with her tongue, and I accept a mere four-inch of heel on her sandals as the price of that. So the emphasis provided to her figure is merely satisfactory.
Still, even four inches puts a disproportionate percentage of her height below her knees, and since she’s on them, her hemline’s showing a sweet slice of under-boob.
I’d been wrong. A thin strip of lacy fabric supports her tits, ending well short of the nubs tenting her dress. Balancing between her knees and toes, heel-spikes pointing like signposts to the door, I find her presentation much improved.
She’s a vision of fuckability.
I stroke her fine, sun-bleached blonde hair, following the striation of it to her ponytail. Normally, I prefer styles that flow wild around a woman’s face, but hers is fine enough to border on frizzy.
Besides, I like having something to hang on to.
I seize it and none to gently yank her head back. She gasp, a breathy little sound torn from that long expanse of exposed throat.
Her cheekbones are statuesque, her whole facial structure vaguely elfin. It only makes her mouth thinner, tighter and more exciting to use.
Tongue flashes out, licking across lips coloured a very fifties ruby-red by a very modern lipstick that gleams with hidden stars.
“Please...” she half-cries, eyes wild with need. They flicker across my face, arms, chest, down to my crotch and back again.
Her hands knead the sides of her panties, insane to reach out and free my cock from it’s Savile-row prison. Instead they work the fabric, pulling it into her sopping snatch and tightening it over her clit.
I’m not afraid she’ll cum from it, whilst I consider whether or not to bang her over my desk.
I’m intensely proud of what I’ve created in her.
Certainly the look, the dress, the heels, the bra, the lipstick and the hair; the attitude, the wildness about her eyes, her fondle-me responsiveness, her honeyed pleading, even the obedient restraint of her own desire. That submission of her need to my will—there can be no doubt these are the things men desire.
The things I deserve from a woman in her place.
I could’ve built her, or had her made to that specification. I could’ve started only with the raw materials of her flesh and stamped those elements into her personality. Marched her to a wardrobe and ordered her to wear nothing but what she found within.
I hadn’t.
I’d simply taken her orgasms from her and a bright, vivacious, successful young career woman had become the needy little slut-secretary on her knees beside me, crazed for my cock.
She’d done it to herself. In four months and change.
Four months during which I’d fucked her a mere three times. Every fifteenth like clockwork, an orgasm paid out with her salary. Our first time had been almost lovemaking, as if the gift her body would satisfy me. The second time I’d fucked her she’d begun to understand what I truly demanded. I’d denied her third for her pathetic attempt at resistance and date-rape, even if Rohypnol in my coffee was a pretty smart move.
By the fourth she’d embraced her slutified status.
Naturally she’d given more blow-jobs and tit-fucks than that, although I was tailing even those off now. I was toying with the idea of Pavlovian conditioning her, sufficient that she’d come from simply from giving them. Once my present experimentation with her was finished, of course.
It wasn’t like I’d feel the lack. There were plenty of girls similar to her in both my home and work-life, and I could always mould more the easy way.
She’s nothing more than a diversion on my twenty-percent time. That and a damn fine secretary. An experiment proving that whilst technically easier, the personal time and effort required to make a slut this way is wildly inefficient.
Still, it adds spice. Knowing that the hot little whore with her ponytail in my hand, frantic to have her head pulled onto my cock is a self-made woman.
I’ll be recommending it to my colleagues.
Not more than once though. A few hadn’t entirely gotten over the guilt associated with the occasional Impression with the first blow-job or vice-tight barely-legal cherry-popping. It’d help them to see a girl brought to it naturally, that we do no more than parole the slut imprisoned inside.
So the only real question is whether or not I consider her done. If the embodiment of all the features listed above is the perfect sex-toy of a secretary?
If it is, then my experiment is complete.
In which case I’ll break ground on that other little project right away, impaling her narrow mouth on my shaft then screwing her to screaming multiples. I consider a vision, her legs splayed wide on mahogany, heels spiking the sky, bare butt smearing through a puddle of sex-juice whilst I pound her gushing slit.
It’s undeniably erotic.
I don’t let it sway me. She’s pleaded so politely for me to fuck her. But the perfect sex-pot would beg, with a mouth as filthy as the things I’d reward her with.
“No,” I tell her curtly, tugging her up by her ponytail. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I never would’ve seen the stricken moment that flashes in her eyes. It was an undeniably weird requirement, and a tricky needle to thread besides: Polite and deferential whilst working, yet impolite and still utterly deferential when I’m amenable to fucking her.
I wonder how long it’ll take her to figure that out. And how much longer it’ll take her to tell the difference.
She’s a bright girl, but still...
I decide, then and there, that if she’s impolite during work time, if she ever shows even a the merest hint of arrogance I’ll... dock her pay.
I smile at the not-really-an-euphemism.
“Yes sir,” she says, interrupting my reverie, rising as smoothly as she’d sunk. “Just let me get that for you.” Her mini-dress hangs on her hips, but the way she wiggles her butt striding round my desk works it down over them, hiding her arse inch by tantalising inch.
She bends at the waist to retrieve the flimsi, and I’m treated to the sight of her pink panties bunched into her bare-shaven pussy.
My cock could be in its inviting wetness with a word.
I won’t relent, but I’m determined that I’ll be within a woman within the hour, and the sooner the better.
I glance at the flimsi. Other than identifying the next meeting, it serves as little more than a prop. My implant provides me with full details of my previous negotiations with the Amalthane Aviation representative.
Negotiations stalled on one particular point of Xenon philosophy.
I’ve been thinking for awhile that we need to underline our resolution, and I’m a firm believer in fortuitousness, serendipity, fate. Call it what you will. Things working out well.
Perhaps the Amalthane representative needs to carry a stronger message back to her superiors.
Yes, I decide. She’ll make our position most explicit.
“Show Miss Andersen in,” I instruct.
“Yes sir,” Penny replies, no hint of frustration in her tone.
She’s such a good girl. But there’s a hint of sullen on her face. Her betrayal’s worse for the complement I’d just paid her, even in the confines of my own head. Definitely punishable. “Then come back....” I drawl to her, allowing my fingertips one stroke of the tented fabric covering my rock-hard cock, “I’ll want you to... take notes.”
Now she’s in no doubt as to my intentions. And she knows I want her to watch.
I’ve actually been a little unkind to the humble flimsi. If something excessively fatal were to happen to my head and my implant then it provides a useful backup. Plus a version of negotiations uncoloured by details unsuited for the human authorities.
That last will be particularly useful in this meeting.
“Miss Andersen,” I greet her as Penny ushers her in. I proffer my hand across the desk. She spurns it, barely bothering to hide her disgust for me and men like me. Penny, I’m sure, doesn’t miss what Miss Andersen thinks of a woman willing to be the kind of secretary a guy like me enjoys.
It’s fair enough. I’m disgusted with her pant-suit, no matter how well tailored it is.
The click as Penny closes the door seems loud, somehow definitive and final, closing the book on Miss – Rebecca, my implant supplies – Andersen.
“It’s Ms Andersen,” she says, “And I-”
“-hate your pants, Becky,” I tell her. “Remove them.”
The shocked expression on her pretty face is worth the price of admission alone . “You fucking boor-” she snaps, then her jaw clicks closed, as traitorous hands unsnap the fastening and slip her pants over her hips.
They crumple to the floor.
Crimson lace. I hadn’t expected that. I guess there really is a slut in every girl.
I twirl my finger, and she steps out of the trousers puddled around her feet. She’s a go-getter, a young professional – twenty-eight, my implant supplies – proud of keeping herself in shape.
Her tight little tush says she’s got a lot to be proud of.
I’ll have to strip that self-confidence out of her.
“It’s real. It’s all real,” she whispers, horror written clear across her pretty face. I have my implant Impress upon her the Xenon view of an appropriate role for a twenty-eight year old business-babe.
She’s a stripper halfway through her act, professional businesswoman above the waist and just professional below. Shorter than I’d thought too, with four and a half inch heels making up the difference. Taller ones than I’d let my secretary work in. I’d pinned Becky for two-inchers, tops.
That part of her will fit in well with the attitude she’ll adopt soon enough, as my implant works on her.
“You poor thing,” she whispers to Penny. It’s something I hadn’t expected.
It hits Penny in the little slut-world where she lives.
To see Miss Andersen, a woman not so different from herself fighting this fate with every fibre of her being, even as she feels them being stripped from her one by one.
That this woman in that moment would chose to spend her last free breath pitying her. Wasting it on a slut not forced but swayed.
It’s a harsh test for my pretty Penny.
If Miss Rebecca Andersen has ruined my experiment – if I have to Impress Penny today—I’ll be pissed, and Becky will pay the price. I’ll work out those frustrations through an excessively fun and rough round of tag-teamed sex with the pair of them.
Becky, naturally, has to leave the Xenon compound in much the same condition as Miss Andersen arrived in. Penny... I can play just as rough as I like with Penny.
My implant roots Penny to the spot, and I proffer Becky my hand. She takes it with a dancer’s elegance, scooting her butt onto my desk, lifting her luscious legs up and over, spinning till she’s straddling me where I stand.
She leans back, then lets her hand drop limply from mine. Lying on my desk, she smiles her invitation over her parted thighs. I don’t need to be asked twice.
Scissors slip close against her skin, and she shivers at the touch of cold metal. They snip closed, she lift her butt clear, and I pocket the red-rag of her ruined panties.
A little memento of my conquest.
“Fuck me, you boar,” she giggles.
I have such a weakness for the clever ones, I think as I point her heels to the stars, squeezing her taut and trembling thighs. Her pussy is wet already.
I tease it with my cock-head, stirring pre-cum into the sexual dewdrops gleaming at the base of her delightful little landing strip.
Becky’s kind of petite, and seized tight from lack of use.
Idly, as I press my way inside her squirming slit, I wonder what’s happened to Penny.
I really enjoy the rest of the meeting.