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From: Andrew Roller <roller666@earthlink.net>
Subject: Fevered Fall part 1 of 22 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
FEVERED FALL
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter One
“Who would ever have thought that a car accident would cause
the Main Lift Engine to shut down?” one engineer asked the other as they
stared at the smoldering pile of concrete. It lay shattered upon the
ground. Rescue workers crawled over the ruins like frantic ants. They
were looking for bodies.
The other engineer looked up. The other Sky Dwellings remained
aloft, long columns of stone that stoically resisted the pull of
gravity.
“Faulty programming,” the other engineer replied. “It didn’t
help, of course, that the Backup Lift Engine was shut down for repairs.”
“Obviously,” the first engineer said. He gazed dispassionately
at the rescue workers. “Well, there is one benefit,” he said. “At
least now we’ll find out what the casualty rate is for a Full Drop.
We’ve never had real figures before.”
The other engineer shook his head. “Damn you, Smith. There’s
no bright side to this tragedy. I’ll tell you what the damn casualty
rate is. It’s 100 percent! There’s not a damn thing left alive inside
that smoldering pile of concrete.
The Tamagotchi glowed.
“What are you doing?!” My auntie shrieked as I went tearing up
the stairs. Brad was back! He’d had his first week of college and now
he’d come to visit me! I had a million questions for him. At the
moment, though, we were having too much fun playing to sit around
talking.
I jumped on my bed. I stood on my tiptoes and peered through
my bedroom window. There he was, below in the pool, swimming laps. He
was on his back, doing a strong backstroke. I waited for him to get in
range of my window. I tossed out a water balloon.
The balloon went sailing through my window, in a long arc down
toward the pool. Brad swam hard, his eyes shut tight. His broad
shoulders cut fast through the water. I let my eyes run along his
chest. He looked like a Roman God, swimming hard to save some captive
maiden. I was both the girl in distress and the wicked wizard who was
keeping me hostage.
My eyes ran down Brad’s muscled figure to the flatness of his
belly. Below, they caught like thorns on his Speedo swimsuit. It
bulged with promise.
SPLAT! The water balloon hit the water, barely missing Brad’s
hips.
“Oh, no!” I cried. I picked up, off my bed, the other water
balloon I’d carried upstairs with me. I lofted it out the window. It
sailed down and I watched it, my hands clapped to my face.
SPLOOSH! The balloon landed directly on Brad’s bulging crotch!
“Ouch!” I heard Brad yell, down in the pool.
My aunt rushed into my bedroom. “Chloe! What are you doing?!”
Rebecca cried to me. She stared at me, standing on my bed, wet from the
pool. I was in my bikini but now I reached back and began untying my
top.
“I’m a captive maiden!” I explained to her. “And a wizard,
too! I’ve had my ten free throws and now each balloon I throw COUNTS!”
I panted. I was trying to explain everything very quickly so I could
get back to the game. “If Brad finishes his 25 workout laps before I
destroy him, he wins!”
My aunt walked quickly over to my bed and grabbed my hands,
which were reaching behind me. She cupped my fingers in her hands and
stopped me from untying my top.
“Chloe,” Rebecca said. “Why are you bringing water balloons
into the house and running upstairs and throwing them out the window?”
“I *told* you,” I protested. I squirmed against her grip.
“I’ve got to destroy Brad! But if I miss him, now that I’ve had all my
free throws, I’ve got to take off my bikini. First my top, and then, if
I miss him again, my bottom too! But if I hit him, like I just did,
then *he* has to undress.” I stood on tiptoe. I caught sight of Brad,
in the pool. Sure enough, just as our game required, he’d slipped out
of his ball-hugger swimsuit. He had begun swimming again, his suit
floating aimlessly in the water as he did his laps. His naked loins
showed a penis that rose like a pillar from the center of his body. It
stood firm and bold. It was oblivious to the destruction I planned for
it with my water balloons.
I was proud of my boyfriend for showing his cock so
courageously. Then again, had I been a boy, I would have realized that
there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent himself from being
erect. Young men are just like that. My aunt stared down at him,
swimming. She cleared her throat and looked at me.
“Chloe,” she said. “Try to be a young lady. I know you’re
only 13. But I can’t have you running in and out of the house with
water balloons. Look at your bed! You’re getting it all wet.”
I stared down at my feet. My bedcovers were all rumpled. They
were wet from having water balloons, fresh from the downstairs faucet,
dumped on them.
My aunt sighed. “I shouldn’t have chickened out and given you
RU-486,” she said. “I should have let you stay pregnant.”
“We can always get pregnant again, auntie,” I said. I glanced
out the window at my boyfriend displaying his proud, fierce cock. “But
please let me finish my game before Brad does all his laps, or else, if
he wins, he’s going to give me a spanking!”
“Chloe,” my aunt said. “We’re not going to be young mothers
together, but we’re not going to be wild Indians either. I want you to
play nicely outside with Brad. *Outside,* Chloe. This is my home, not
‘Summer Fun.’” She looked again at Brad. He was beautiful, a
sun-bronzed God, naked as the statues of Greece. “It looks to me like
he’s trying to get his exercise, Chloe, and you’re just trying to be the
center of attention,” my aunt told me. She let go of my hands. I let
them drop to my sides. She began retying the top on my bikini. “Why
don’t you let Brad do his laps, Chloe?” my aunt asked me. “He does need
to have his daily workout. You two can play afterwards. *Without*
bringing water balloons into the house, Chloe.” She smiled. “And,
little Miss, there’s one other thing I wanted to tell you. Just because
your parents have let you stay on with me this fall doesn’t mean you’re
going to make a mess of my house every day after school. I want you to
get a job, Chloe. I don’t want you just sitting around watching
Gilligan’s Island and I definitely don’t want you throwing water
balloons out the window.”
“A job!” I said. My eyes brightened. I’d never had a job
before. “What sort of job will it be?”
“I’m not sure,” Rebecca said. “I’ll have to find something.
You’re too young to work, technically, but perhaps I could find someone
to hire you part time, and pay you out of his pocket.”
“I want to make LOTS of money as a fashion model,” I told my
aunt. “Or I want to be a horse trainer!”
“I’ll see what I can find,” Rebecca told me. “But the upshot
of it is that you need to do your homework, Chloe. I know you’ve been
putting it off. Sit down and do your homework while Brad finishes
swimming his laps. Work a little ahead. Then you won’t fall behind in
your lessons next week if I find a job for you downtown, after school.”
“Okay!” I said. I felt excited about getting a job. I’d have
money of my own to spend and wouldn’t have to bug Rebecca, or call home
to my parents, for help in buying stuff. I gave my aunt a big kiss.
“Thanks, auntie!” I exclaimed.
“I’m going to have a friend over for dinner,” Rebecca told me.
“A man?” I asked.
“Yes,” Rebecca smiled. “He owns a big corporation.” She gave
a toss of her long, lovely brown hair. I sensed in her eyes a
possessive look, like the Conquistadors must have shown when they gazed
upon the palaces of the Incas. “Tell Brad to put his swimsuit back on,”
Rebecca said. “In about half an hour,” she said, looking again out the
window. Her eyes lingered on his body. She smiled. She licked her
lips. “It wouldn’t do for my new acquaintance to find a naked man in my
pool.”
“Okay,” I said. I stood admiring Brad with her. He was
strong, his cock upright and hard, well-displayed, like a shark’s fin.
He swam with an easy gracefulness, back stroke, his face looking more
relaxed now that I’d stopped throwing water balloons at him.
“And keep your own swimsuit on too,” Rebecca told me.
“Yes, auntie,” I replied.
Brad and I sat in our wet swimsuits at dinner, with my aunt and
the man with the big corporation. He was dressed in a Tommy Hilfinger
suit. My aunt wore a smart, sexy gown. We made small talk. The man
seemed to get along well with Brad and told him if he did well in
college, he might have a position for him when he graduated. Brad
smiled and told him his real dream in life, when he got out of college,
was to be a forest ranger, in the American Redwoods.
“Unfortunately, I own many things, but not the Redwoods,” the
man told Brad.
“I didn’t think you did,” Brad answered.
“How about Chloe?” my aunt asked our new guest. “Do you have
any openings for a secretary?”
I smiled at the man. I liked his name: Louie LaCrosse. Mr.
LaCrosse, to all except his closest acquaintances. He’d invited me to
call him Louie but I was intrigued by the idea of calling him “Mr.
LaCrosse” instead. It just seemed more natural, somehow.
Mr. LaCrosse gazed across the table at me.
“Why of course,” he said. “I’m sure I could find a position
for her somewhere.”
“Only if she’s really needed,” Rebecca said. “I don’t want her
to be a bother... or just an ornament.”
“She would make a delightful ornament,” Mr. LaCrosse said to my
aunt.
“What’s an ornament?” I asked.
“It’s something you hang up. Like on a tree, dear,” my aunt
said.
“Oh. Then Brad has an ormanent,” I said, manging the word
slightly. “Between his legs.”
“Chloe!” my aunt said. Brad laughed.
“Do you have a ormanent, Mr. LaCrosse?” I asked our guest
brightly.
“Er, Chloe, if I hire you I’ll need you to learn about office
decorum,” Mr. LaCrosse said to me. His voice was warm, yet firm.
“Yes. She needs someone to train her not to run around like a
little Indian,” my aunt told Mr. LaCrosse. “She’s had a rather, um,
natural summer.”
“Ah, free and uninhibited!” Mr. LaCrosse said. “I remember
having summers like that. Swimming naked in the Seine, hunting for
German shell cartriges out on the old battlefields.” He grinned at me.
“If you’re willing to learn, Chloe, I believe I could find a nice spot
for you in my company. Would you mind if I supervised you personally?”
“No, Mr. LaCrosse,” I said, eyeing him over a forkful of
jello. Our salad included jello in it and I was managing to eat the
jello without touching the lettuce.
“Very well,” Mr. LaCrosse said. He put his own fork to his
salad, scooped up lettuce and jello indiscriminately. He ate. He
swallowed. He looked at me, still picking over my greens, plucking out
the chunks of jello. “Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said. “I want you to eat
all your salad. You need it so you can grow big and strong.”
I looked up at him. If my aunt had told me to eat all my
salad, I would have complained. I would have told her I was
13-years-old, and what business did she have telling me how to eat my
salad? Even Brad, if he’d told me to eat a certain way, I would have
scolded. But Mr. LaCrosse had a way of looking at me that made me want
to obey. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was the same thing that caused
me to prefer calling him “Mr. LaCrosse,” instead of Louie.
“If you insist, Mr. LaCrosse,” I said in a quiet voice.
Wrinkling my nose a little, I scooped up lettuce with my jello, and ate
it. I didn’t mind the lettuce, necessarily, but it had leaves of
spinach mixed in with it and I wasn’t terribly fond of raw spinach.
Nonetheless I chewed and swallowed. Mr. LaCrosse gazed at me with
proud, possessive eyes.
“You know, I never had a daughter,” Mr. LaCrosse said to my
aunt.
“Oh, what a pity,” my aunt answered.
“Just a wife and a son,” Mr. LaCrosse said. He looked at Brad,
then again at my aunt. “My wife would be 42 now, if she’d lived. And
my son is your age,” he said to Brad.
“It’s nice of you to give Chloe a job,” Brad said. “But
remember that she’s my girlfriend.”
“Brad!” I said, sharply.
“Well, I’m just telling him about our relationship,” Brad said
to me.
“I’m your girlfriend *if* I want to be your girlfriend,” I said
to Brad.
My aunt sighed. She looked at Mr. LaCrosse. “Just what I
need. A lovers’ quarrel,” she said.
“I’m sure by working in an office your neice will become quite
a sophisticated young lady,” Mr. LaCrosse replied.
I showed up at the office all set for work. I had my 3-ring
binder, my glow-in-the-dark eraser, and my Hello Kitty pencil set. I
wore my school clothes. I went to a private Catholic school downtown,
then took a cab over to where Mr. LaCrosse’s office was. He paid for my
cab. I was escorted into his office, in an upper floor of a skyscraper.
“Hello, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said to me. He smiled at the
secretary who escorted me into his office. He dismissed her, and
pointed to where I should sit. It was a big leather chair that sat
across from his desk. He had a huge office. You could see the whole
city of Paris stretched out below his window. I ignored Mr. LaCrosse’s
gesture that I sit in the leather chair and went rushing to the window.
“Wow!” I cried. “I can see everything!”
“Ah, yes. One takes the view for granted when one works here
every day,” Mr. LaCrosse said. He turned. He left his desk and walked
over to where I was standing. He put his hand on my shoulder. I felt a
sudden thrill rise through me. I turned my head, glanced back behind
us, saw we were alone. The secretary had left. Impulsively, I huddled
closer to Mr. LaCrosse. As I felt his body against mine I looked at a
bus discharging passengers on the street below us. The people looked
small as bugs.
“Mr. LaCrosse?” I asked in a small voice. I liked saying his
name, for some reason.
“Yes, Chloe?” he asked. The way he said my name, I think he
liked saying my name as much as I liked saying his.
“I want you to feel you can... you can teach me... anything you
need to, Mr. LaCrosse,” I said in a small, seductive voice. “About
offices, and stuff.”
“Of course, Chloe,” he said. His hand slipped off my shoulder
and caressed the long mane of my hair. Slowly, as we stared together at
the skyline, his hand trailed down through my hair to the small of my
back. I wiggled. He placed his hand on my skirt, as if to still the
childish movement of my hips. “Chloe,” he said. His throat sounded
constricted.
“Yes, Mr. LaCrosse?” I asked. My voice had an alluring
submissiveness to it. I guess it was because he owned a big office, and
a big corporation, and I liked being a small little part of all the big
things he owned.
“Chloe, I....” Mr. LaCrosse stammered. He cleared his throat.
“I have something to tell you,” he managed to get out. He patted my
fanny. I arched my bottom a little, as if to invite him to keep on
patting me there. His fingers played in the folds of my skirt. It was
pleated, a neat school girl’s skirt. It served as a warning to some
men, my uniform, telling them I was too young. Jailbait. To other men,
my pleated skirt and starched blouse served as a lure.
Mr. LaCrosse’s hand slipped up under my skirt and pressed
against my fanny. He felt warm. I must have felt the same way to him.
He stroked the fabric of my panties. They were cotton, white, just
ordinary panties. But in feeling them his breathing deepened. I
squirmed. He lifted his hand. I arched my bottom back and reconnected
with him. His palm settled firmly on my ass. His fingers were large
and encompassed my seat. He squeezed it.
“Your... ah, your aunt is a very beautiful woman, Chloe,” Mr.
LaCrosse said to me.
“Yes, Mr. LaCrosse,” I answered.
“But you are even more beautiful, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said.
“I am?!” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“But I’m only 13,” I said.
“I’m well aware of your age, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said. He
looked down at me. He patted my ass. I gazed from the city up at him.
“I want you to be my personal secretary, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said.
“For just a few hours a day. After your school, of course.”
“Oh! That sounds great, Mr. LaCrosse!” I said. “I brought my
Hello Kitty pencil box with me. I have all different colored pencils in
it. Black lead for writing, red for correcting, blue for
non-judgemental comments. And green and yellow too!”
“That’s very good, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said. He gazed at my
blouse. His eyes drank in the swell of my bosoms. “Your school uniform
will not be appropriate for working here, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse told me.
I began to speak, but he put a finger to my lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll
pay for all your clothes,” he said. “I’m even going to pick out your
clothes for you. The latest fashions, of course.” He smiled. “I’m
going to have one of my secretaries measure you, Chloe,” he said.
“Today you’re just to be measured. Then one of the girls will show you
around, show you where the coffee pot is, and everything. Then you may
go home. Tommorrow, when you arrive, there will be an outfit waiting
for you. You’ll wear it while you’re working here.” He moved away from
me. He returned to his desk. He looked up from the papers on his desk
and back at me, standing by the window. “Oh, one more thing,” he said.
“While you’re here, wearing your outfit, you’re not to leave this floor
without permission.” He smiled. “I hope you don’t find that
requirement to be an imposition on your freedom,” he said.
“I don’t think so, Mr. LaCrosse,” I said in a tentaive voice.
I put a finger to my mouth and sucked it. I gazed at him, standing tall
by his desk. He looked so handsome! So ‘in control’ of all aspects of
his life! And now he had my life in the palm of his hand too.
“If anything is needed, one of my other secretaries can be sent
downstairs to fetch it,” Mr. LaCrosse told me. “And of course, when
it’s time for you to go home, you’ll change back into your school
uniform.”
“Alright, Mr. LaCrosse,” I said.
“I would prefer,” Mr. LaCrosse said, “If our working
relationship was kept from your boyfriend Brad. He doesn’t need to
know. He can be your boyfriend, of course. I have no desire to
interfere with that. But here, when you and I are together, that will
be our special time together. Do I...” he paused. His voice deepened.
“Do I make myself clear, Chloe?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. LaCrosse,” I said.
“Very well,” Mr. LaCrosse said. He pressed a button on the
speakerphone on his desk. “Miss Fredrickson? Chloe would like to have
herself measured for her work attire,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. LaCrosse,” the speakerphone replied.
My miniskirt was made of leather. It was quite short. It
barely cleared the rounded shelf of my bottom. When I bent, even
slightly, the white batiste of my designer panties showed. I had
stockings on, thigh-high stockings without garters that gripped my legs,
but they stopped well short of my skirt, leaving an expanse of white
skin where my stockings could not reach and my skirt did not fall low
enough to cover.
I had on high heels. They were laced with black ties all the
way up my calves to my knees. They clicked primly on the floor when I
walked. My blouse was made of silk. It was decollette, hanging low on
my chest so that when I bent, showing my pantied backside, my blouse
fell open to reveal my tits. I had been given no bra to wear. My hair
was elaborately done up, by one of the secretaries, and had a black
ribbon tied near the back, which matched my skirt. To top everything
off, I was dripping in jewels; pearl earrings, a pearl choker around my
throat, even pearl anklets bound just above my small feet. In addition
to all that, I wore black gloves. They covered just my hands, very
fashionably, I thought, flaring at the wrist, tapering narrowly over my
slim fingers.
Mr. LaCrosse gazed at me from behind his big desk. “You look
smashing, Chloe,” he said. “Perfectly outfitted for work in my office.”
“Thank you, Mr. LaCrosse,” I said. There was an old school
desk set up near his. It was small. It had sheets of paper on it. I
glanced over at it. “Do you want me to sit there, Mr. LaCrosse?” I
asked.
“Yes, Chloe,” my new boss said.
“Where’s my computer?” I asked, looking at the papers set out
on the desk.
“You... ah... may use a computer if you wish, Chloe,” Mr.
LaCrosse said. “But I thought you have them at your school.”
“Yes,” I said, rolling my eyes. “They used to be fun. But now
we work on them all day long! And they don’t have any games on them,
like they used to. The administration erased all of those.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to have to slave away on a computer
here, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said. “And you may certainly play games, if
you like. But first I have some work I need you to do.”
“What?!” I asked excitedly. I approached his desk. He took
something from a drawer and slid it out to the end of his desk for me to
pick up. It was a box of crayons.
“I have a report I need you to color, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said
to me.
“Color?!” I asked.
“Yes, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said. “Are you good at coloring?”
“Of course,” I answered. “But I didn’t know reports needed to
be colored.”
“This is my own special report, just for me,” Mr. LaCrosse
said. “It’s a report on the Kama Sutra, Chloe. As you know, the Kama
Sutra involves all different kinds of bodily positions. For coitus.
One can hardly keep track of all of them, without diagrams. I need you
to color in all the people in the report, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said.
“The Kama--” I said. I picked up the crayons and wandered over
to my desk.
“Sutra,” Mr. LaCrosse said.
“Oh!” I cried. The top sheet of paper on my school desk had
two people on it. They were clasping each other. I could see a long
dong-like penis extending from the man into the woman. He looked as
well-hung as a donkey! “It’s a report about sex,” I said.
“Yes,” Mr. LaCrosse said. “The Kama Sutra originated in India,
Chloe. So you will be learning a little about Indian art as well as
their sexual practises. And when the report’s all colored-in, I’ll have
a nice-looking report for myself on sex in India. Which will be quite
helpful, since I’m planning to open a subsidiary in India soon.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said. I settled into the wooden chair behind
the desk. I opened my box of crayons.
“Did the girls show you where the coffee pot was?” Mr. LaCrosse
asked me.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Good,” Mr. LaCrosse said. “I don’t want you to get me coffee
if you feel it will be an imposition, but--”
“Oh, no!” I cried. “I’ll be happy to get your coffee, Mr.
LaCrosse. I’m real good at putting cream and sugar in it in the right
amounts and everything. Brad likes coffee!”
“Ah, I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention your boyfriend
during our time together, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse told me. “Just as a
personal favor, to me. I never had a daughter and, well...”
“Of course, Mr. LaCrosse,” I said. “I know how guys feel
jealous of each other. Girls do too.”
“Good,” Mr. LaCrosse said. “Also, occasionally I’d like a
drink. I have some liquor in a liquor cabinet there.” He pointed. “Do
you know how to mix drinks, Chloe?” he asked.
“No, but I’d love to learn,” I said.
“Good,” Mr. LaCrosse said.
The minutes passed. I colored the people in the Kama Sutra
report. Such strange positions they were in! And all of them sexual.
I felt my nipples perk up inside my blouse. My ass squirmed on my
chair. I crossed my legs, uncrossed them, crossed them again. Mr.
LaCrosse worked at his desk. He took several phone calls. Nobody knew,
except he and I, and the three secretaries in his anterior office, that
we were alone together. Imagine if they’d seen my outfit! I looked
like I was ready to hit a nightclub, and a risque one at that, but it
was only mid-afternoon.
Finally I looked up from my report on the Kama Sutra and said,
“Mr. LaCrosse, would you like me to get you some coffee now?”
“Er, no, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse answered. I shifted my hips. I
did some more coloring. Then I looked up at him again and asked, “Would
you like some coffee now, Mr. LaCrosse?”
“No, Chloe, I’m trying to decide between these financial plans
right now,” Mr. LaCrosse said in a distracted voice.
“Would it be okay if I get some coffee for me, Mr. LaCrosse?” I
asked. He looked up from the papers on his desk.
“Chloe is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked. I
gave him a surprised look.
“Um, no, Mr. LaCrosse,” I said. I shifted my fanny on my
chair. He stared at me, then said,
“I think there is, Chloe.”
I swallowed.
“Mr. LaCrosse,” I said. “With your permission, I have to go to
the bathroom.”
The man sitting at his big desk in his Tommy Hilfinger suit
gazed at me with a triumphant look in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Chloe,” he
said. “But I can’t give you permission for that just now. You’ll have
to hold it.”
“What?!” I cried. I dropped the crayon I was coloring with.
It hit my desk, rolled off, fell to the floor.
“It’s important, in office work, to use the toilet during your
breaks, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said.
“But I haven’t had a break yet!” I answered.
“Of course,” Mr. LaCrosse said. “You’ll have a break when I
authorize it. As my private assistant, it’s important that you put my
needs ahead of your own.”
“Yes, Mr. LaCrosse,” I said.
“Now, if you were truly my daughter, and if you were sitting
here coloring, do you know what would happen, Chloe?” Mr. LaCrosse asked
me.
“No,” I said. I gulped. Our ‘workplace’ was starting to take
on a rather unusual air.
“You would sit here and color and completely ignore your
bladder, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said. “You would color away, until you
were absolutely bursting! Then, at the last minute, still trying to
color, but absolutely full from sitting so long, you’d blurt out to me
that you had to pee.”
I looked at him. What did he think I was, a six-year-old? Of
course I remembered doing that when I was six, or five, but I was 13
now!
“Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said. “I have been with many women.
Fine, mature, sophisticated women. But I’ve never had a daughter. I
would really like to have a daughter who sits near me and colors until
her need to pee makes her absolutely squirm in her seat.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Would you do me a favor and keep right on coloring, Chloe?”
Mr. LaCrosse asked. “Keep on coloring in all those people in their
sexual positions. Think of the man in those drawings, yearning to cum,
but holding himself back. Think of him as you strive to contain your
pee within your pretty cuntlips.”
“Mr. LaCrosse?” I asked.
“Yes, Chloe?” he said to me.
“Are you... sort of like the man in these drawings?” I asked.
“Very much so, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse answered.
“Oh,” I said.
“Keep coloring, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said. “And tell me, what
is your favorite soda?”
“Soda?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Strawberry,” I said.
“I’m going to have my secretary, Miss Fredrickson, bring you a
strawberry soda, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse told me. “I want you to drink all
of it.”
“Yes, Mr. LaCrosse,” I said.
When the woman came in, Mr. LaCrosse had her get me a soda,
plus a cup of coffee for himself.
“I could have gotten you that,” I told him ruefully.
“I know what you could have done, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse replied.
“Shhh, dear. Don’t bother him. He has to approve our
finanacial plan for India,” Miss Fredrickson told me.
Time passed. I drank my soda. Mr. LaCrosse drank all of his
coffee. I squirmed in my seat. Finally, an exasperated look on my
face, I regarded Mr. LaCrosse and said,
“Sir, I really do have to go to the bathroom. May I be excused
now?”
My boss smiled. Without lifting his head, still studying his
financial plan for his new Indian subsidiary, he said, “Chloe, the
toilet is right there on the other side of my desk. You may go use it
if you wish.”
“Huh?” I asked.
“You’ll be going in a potty, right here in my office,” Mr.
LaCrosse said. “If you pick up that box of xeroxed papers, you’ll see
that the plastic thing it’s sitting on is actually a child’s potty.
Lift the seat and pee in it. One of the secretaries will empty the
potty in the adult’s bathroom down the hall when you’re finished.”
“What?!” I cried. I stood up. I gaped at the paper box across
the room, the one with XEROX printed boldly on it, that had been cut
open and converted into a makeshift filing cabinet. It held some excess
paperwork and, I saw, was sitting on a plastic container. I walked
across the room. I picked up the box labelled XEROX. It was light. I
set it on the floor. Sure enough, what lay underneath, the plastic
container, was in fact a small child’s potty. It had been placed on a
low broad coffee table, so that anyone using the potty would have to get
up on the coffee table, thereby making a greater display of themself.
“Can I at least put the potty on the floor?” I asked in a high,
concerned voice.
“Of course not, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse answered. “I put the
potty up on the table so I could see you more easily. I want you
squatting up on the table. That way I can admire your cunny as you sit
there peeing. And wiping.” He grinned at me.
“Oh!” I shouted. There was a box of Kleenex waiting beside the
potty, on the table. It had Tweety Bird, from Looney Tunes, printed on
it. I suspected each Kleenex also bore a cartoon image of the bird.
“I’m-- I’m too big to sit on the potty!” I protested. “And the table
might break!”
“It won’t, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said. “I want you to get up on
it and pee. Unless, that is, you’d rather hold yourself in a while
longer.”
“I can’t!” I blurted.
“Good,” he said. “We’ll call this our break, then.” He leaned
back in his big leather chair. He gazed at me. He reached in his desk
and took out a cigar and lit it. “Anytime, Chloe,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t want you to watch me going to the bathroom!” I
cried.
“I’m paying you, Chloe,” Mr. LaCrosse said. “I’m paying you by
the hour, I’ve paid for your cab, and I’ve bought your clothes. Now I
want to see you go to the bathroom. It’s a fair bargain, I think. You
have to pee in any event. Just think of me as your father, watching
solicitously as his daughter learns to handle herself on the potty.”
“Oh, God!” I said. But I climbed up on the table. Why? I’m
not sure. Perhaps it was because he was four times my age. It made him
both remote and, somehow, safer than Brad would have been, seeing me do
it. Plus, he had given me such sexy things to wear. I really liked my
short skirt. I loved my long stockings. He would take complete care of
me, I realized, and all I had to do in return was give him the small
daughter he’d always wanted but never had. “I have to go quite badly,”
I admitted, gazing ruefully at him. I lifted my skirt. I yanked down
my panties. I was sufficiently full that even if he’d let me go down
the hall, I might not have made it.
I plopped down onto the child’s seat of the potty. The empty
bowl in the potty loomed below me. I looked down at myself. My legs
were splayed, my cunt offered itself to the waiting container below me.
I put my fingers to my sex. I peed.
“Miss Fredrickson, would you please bring me that report on
Indonesia?” Mr. LaCrosse said, pressing a button on his speaker phone.
I gaped at him.
“Louie, I’m peeing!” I hissed. My urine fell into the bowl.
It made a splashing sound.
“Of course, Mr. LaCrosse,” a pleasant Swedish voice answered.
A moment later his secretary entered, carrying a sheaf of papers. She
walked past me, sitting in a rather abject pose on the toilet, still
busy relieving myself.
“Is there anything else, Mr. LaCrosse?” Miss Fredrickson asked.
“See that Chloe wipes herself properly,” my boss answered. The
secretary turned. She regarded me as one does an animal, pooping in the
back yard. As I stared up at her, I thanked God I only had to do number
one.
“Ah, you will need to have it emptied too, when she’s
finished,” Miss Fredrickson said to Mr. LaCrosse. She was a lovely
blonde. She stared at me with her fingers interlaced, twin hands poised
efficiently, waiting for me to complete my pee.
“Yes,” Mr. LaCrosse said. He puffed on his cigar.
“I’m done!” I said. I yanked at the box of Kleenex beside my
potty, pulling a tissue free and wiping my sex with it. I dropped the
soiled Kleenex into the pool of pee lying in the bottom of the
container. I stood up. My skirt fell over me. I pulled up my panties.
“She’s a quick wiper,” Miss Fredrickson said. She walked over
to me. She offered me her hand. “You did well, dear,” she said in a
soft voice to me, laced with feminine sympathy. “Would you like to
color some more?”
“No,” I said. She drew me a little away from the potty, my
feet still on the table, and embraced me. Her lips sought mine, kissed
me. I drew back a little but her arms held me against her. I relaxed.
She kissed me again.
“This is our own special place,” Miss Fredrickson said to me,
in her high-pitched voice, with her Swedish accent. “We can have as
much fun as we want here. There’s no need to feel embarrassed. Let
yourself be free. You’ll be amply rewarded.”
“I want to go home,” I said.
“Why?” Miss Fredrickson asked. “The fun’s only just
beginning.” She helped me down off the table. Then, staying me with a
firm hand clasping my own, she got up on the table in my place. “I have
to pee too,” Miss Fredrickson confided in me. “I hope your pee doesn’t
splash up on me when I do it. I’m not used to the bowl already being
half-full.”
She lowered her own panties and lifted her skirt. When she had
settled herself down on the pot, she again took my hand in her own. She
peed. We held hands as she peed. I watched, mesmerized. Mr. LaCrosse
watched, puffing on his cigar.
“You had to go badly,” I said, as Miss Fredrickson peed for
what seemed a very long time.
“Yes,” she answered. “I was waiting for you. I haven’t gone
since lunch.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s no problem,” Miss Fredrickson said. She looked ruefully
at her boss. “He decides when I may relieve myself. He can be quite...
challenging.” She looked up at me with her blue Swedish eyes. “Did you
know I’m married?” she asked.
“No,” I said. I didn’t even know her first name, yet.
“Well, I am,” Miss Fredrickson told me. “My husband’s a big
ex-football player. He used to play for the Paris team. He’d be
jealous as hell if he knew what I did at work. But he doesn’t, of
course. Like I said, this is our own special place. We can be
ourselves here, with Mr. LaCrosse.” Her eyes flitted to the man sitting
behind his desk, puffing his cigar.
“I have to go too,” Mr. LaCrosse said. He stood up. He
unzipped himself. As I watched with awestruck eyes, he unleashed a
penis from his trousers that stood out a good foot from his body. It
was pointing right at us.
“The potty is full, sir,” Miss Fredrickson said to Mr.
LaCrosse. She carefully wiped herself and dropped the Kleenex into the
bowl. It floated beside mine.
“Then get out the baby pool,” Mr. LaCrosse said.
A few minutes later, Miss Fredrickson and I knelt in our
business clothes in the baby pool. She pretended to give dictation. I
pretended to take notes, with my crayons, on a sheet of paper laid out
on the floor of the pool. Mr. LaCrosse stood over us, his cock erect
and exposed.
“The new subsidiary in India will be involved in coal
extraction,” Miss Fredrickson said to me in a high, lilting voice. “It
will be part owned by an Indian minority owner and-- oh, dear, it looks
like it might rain!”
“Really?” I asked. Miss Fredrickson pointed up at Mr.
LaCrosse’s cock. “Such big clouds they have here in India,” she said to
me.
“Fortunately our clothing allowance will take care of us if we
get our clothes wet,” I told her. I felt queasy. I was playing along,
but how strange it was! Did Mr. LaCrosse really want to pee on us? I
was telling myself it was all a joke, he’d never ruin such expensive
clothes as he’d lavished on us, when suddenly a spattering of warm pee
rained down on my head.
“EEEEEEEeeeek!” I cried.
“Yeeeeeek!” Miss Fredrickson shouted, though with less alarm
than I expressed. I tried to rise from the pool to escape the downpour
of pee but she put her hand on my shoulder and made me stay kneeling.
Mr. Fredrickson’s urine fell in my lustrous hair, gold as my
well-brushed locks. It spattered my blouse, it cascaded down onto the
crayon I clenched in my fist and the paper I’d been writing on. Mr.
LaCrosse swung his ample, turgid organ and peed over both myself and
Miss Frederickson. Despite our screams, none of the other secretaries
in the anterior office came in to see what was the matter.
In time, Mr. LaCross’s stream lessened. Its arc grew shorter.
He drew closer to the edge of our pool to make sure we continued to
receive even the last drops of his urine. He shook himself over us,
giving us every last bit. I gazed with pee-stained cheeks down at the
urine collected in the bottom of our pool.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Mr. LaCrosse said.
“Oh. I didn’t realize you were busy, sir,” a woman said,
peeking within.
“It’s okay. I’m just using the toilet,” Mr. LaCrosse replied.
“What is it, Miss Jacobs?”
“Someone from Deli, sir. About the new subsidiary,” the woman
replied.
“Patch them through. I’ll take the call,” Mr. LaCrosse said.
He zipped himself up. He did it with difficulty because his thing was
so large and engorged. “Wait here,” he told myself and Miss
Fredrickson. “I still need to ejaculate.”
“My, you two look a bit wet,” Miss Jacobs laughed.
“Just attending to toilet duty,” Miss Fredrickson replied.
“Of course,” Miss Jacobs said. She smiled. “I’ll bring you
wipes so you can at least wipe off your faces. Would either of you like
something to drink?”
“A scotch,” Miss Fredrickson said. “With a twist of lime.”
“A strawberry soda!” I told her. Then I looked at Miss
Fredrickson. “Can I get out of the pool now?” I asked her.
“No, the fun’s just beginning,” she said. “Drink your soda and
then try to pee some more.”
“I don’t want to sit on the potty again. It’s full,” I told
her.
“No, just pee right here,” Miss Fredrickson said. She gave me
a wicked smile. “Do you remember when you were a little girl?” she
asked.
“Of course,” I said. “Some people still call me a little
girl.”
“Just kneel in this pool and pee whenever you feel like,” Miss
Fredrickson said. “And don’t take off your panties to do it. Just pee
right in your panties. You’re pretty wet already, from Mr. LaCrosse.
“I know,” I said. “But isn’t it bad to, like, do this?”
“We’ll change afterward. There’s a small shower down the
hall,” Miss Fredrickson said. “Like I told you, this is our own special
place. We can be totally free here. And he pays for everything,” she
added, looking at Mr. LaCrosse, sitting at his big desk. He was
speaking to the mayor of Deli, puffing contentedly on his cigar.
“Oh, don’t tell my auntie that I sat in a baby pool, peeing in
my panties!” I told Miss Fredrickson.
“I won’t, if you don’t tell my husband,” she said.
“I don’t know your husband,” I confessed.
“I don’t know your aunt,” she replied. We stared at each
other. “You’re very cute,” Miss Fredrickson told me. “May I kiss you?”
“Mmmmm,” I said. “But don’t tell.” The woman leaned forward
and kissed me. Her lips were soft. I savored them against my own. Her
hand stole into my decollete blouse and fondled my tits. I meant to
protest but the words I intended to speak drowned in my throat as Miss
Fredrickson held me in a prolonged kiss.
My hand slithered along Miss Fredrickson’s waist and went down
between her legs, past her short skirt, and up between her thighs. I
found her panties and pressed against them with my fingers. She
groaned. I felt the fabric of her undies wetten slightly.
Our kiss continued. I heard Miss Jacobs giggle but even that
didn’t cause our mouths to part. Miss Fredrickson worked her snatch
against my fingers.
“I’m going to pee,” she breathed hotly.
“Okay,” I sighed. As we continued to kiss I felt a sudden
discharge of fluid into the fabric I was diddling. She peed in her
panties! I felt a sudden need of my own. I whispered to her what I
wished to do. She nodded, a little, still kissing me, and slipped a
hand up under my skirt. She felt my dell through the fabric of my
undies.
“Do it now,” Miss Fredrickson said.
“Mmmmm,” I said into her lips. I let myself go. Pee squirted
from my cunt lips into my tight-pressed briefs. Miss Fredrickson
tickled me. I giggled, still peeing. I felt a new spurt of pee wetten
her own panties.
“We’re pee pals,” Miss Fredrickson told me.
“Yes,” I giggled.
Miss Jacobs brought us wipes for our faces and drinks for our
bellies. We indulged ourselves. We hoped to pee again, we were such
wicked girls that day. Mr. LaCrosse finished his phone call. He came
over to where we were kneeling. He unzipped himself again. He offered
us his cock. Miss Fredrickson and I both licked at him greedily. When
he could stand no more of our attention, he loosed himself freely into
our hair and over our faces. We took all he had to give us, gladly,
uncaring about how sticky it made us or how it wrecked our clothes.
Miss Fredrickson and I, enduring the shower of his sperm, at the same
time felt each other and peed yet again in our underwear.
“It was rather liberating, don’t you think?” Miss Fredrickson
asked me bashfully as we shared a tight shower down the hall. I
squeezed against her. There was barely enough room in the portable
shower for one, let alone two. But somehow that made it all the more
special, and intimate.
“It does sort of free you up from anxieties and inhibitions,” I
said. “I never thought work could be like this.”
“Neither did I, until I met Mr. LaCrosse,” Miss Fredrickson
sighed.
“Mmmm. I’m glad I met you too,” I told her truthfully. “I
feel shy about it, but you’re pretty fun.”
“So are you,” Miss Fredrickson said. “Hopefully we’ll get to
party a lot like this.”
“Yes!” I said.
Unfortunately Mr. LaCrosse died of a heart attack the following
week. I told my auntie what we’d been doing and she was quite shocked
by it all. I saw Miss Fredrickson again at the funeral. We kissed. We
cried together. I wondered if my feelings for her were beyond what a
girl should feel. Her husband took her away at the end of the funeral
and I did not get to see her again.
30
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