I don’t know why they call it work. I sign in. I check the boxes that come in via the loading dock, then I sit at my desk. Sometimes my fingers slip under my little thong and I masturbate there if I am bored and the men are busy. When I am not at my desk I am usually being called “onto the carpet” as the men say when they are not saying cute things about my bottom and asking if they can “put it in.” I was on the carpet late this morning. I have recorded my encounter as faithfully as I could.
“Missy, what am I going to do with you?” said my boss Daisy, as she rose from her chair while all the time tapping the sharp end of her pencil on the desk. The men call Miss Daisy “the tarantula.” I can’t imagine why. She has a pretty face, and she keeps her body up. She wears old time underwear though, those garter things. Black, usually. Maybe it looks like a tarantula. I don’t know, I’m not good at those things.
“If I’ve done something wrong, I’m sorry.”
“How many this time?” she asked, moving slowly from behind the desk until she was close enough to lift the hem of my dress with her pencil. “How many big, throbbing cocks?”
“Three. But we were on our ten minute break, Miss Daisy, so I thought it would be ok.”
I felt the cold, rubbery edge of the eraser on my thighs as she eased my skirt higher and higher with her pencil. “Ten minutes! What can you accomplish in ten minutes?!”
I scooched up in the chair until I could feel cool air on my twat. I don’t know where my thong ended up. That’s what I like to call it–twat. It sounds so flubbery and elastic.
“Good lord, it’s dripping!”