So Pretty That It Hurts

by jamaica

Copyright© 2018 by jamaica

Erotica Sex Story: Wicked little pricktease runs amok at the office.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Reluctant   Heterosexual   Fiction   Workplace   FemaleDom   Humiliation   Sadistic   Gang Bang   Analingus   Exhibitionism   Food   Masturbation   Oral Sex   Petting   Voyeurism   Water Sports   Big Breasts   Foot Fetish   Leg Fetish   Slow   .

Abigail Melons, uncommonly pretty and figure to die for, was feeling routinely fabulous as she arrived for work. She was thoroughly looking forward to the day ahead of her. She always did. What young lady wouldn’t enjoy her job when her place of employment was populated almost exclusively by men who were head over heels for her? It was a most acceptable state of affairs.

She entered the spacious mirrored lift and, having it to herself, undertook a cool and studied 360 examination of her appearance this morning. Mmm. Yes. And the skirt was fine. It worked perfectly. The whole ensemble was bound to be received very well indeed. It would go down a storm. Such would no doubt be confirmed in a few moments when she arrived at the floor where her firm was located. She smiled to herself at the prospect. She was late, would therefore be conspicuous to all and sundry when the lift opened and she had to sashay her way across the expanse of open plan to her desk over on the far side. Abi was in the habit of being late.

She might be only 22 but Abi was a self-possessed and astute girl. She understood and enjoyed the power that her exceptional looks bestowed upon her. Being a highly desirable young woman surrounded at work by smitten (and mainly older) men brought with it certain privileges and career advantages, and little Abi Melons had not been slow to make the most of them.

Abi had a whale of a time at the office. She enjoyed and encouraged the attempts of besotted male colleagues to flatter and amuse her. She found it ridiculously easy to manipulate the guys and get her own way. Simply batting her eyelashes was sufficient to have them do her bidding. They fell over themselves to please, including and especially the boss. Abi had Dominic Dankeschoen, or ‘Dom’ to her, a man more than twice her age, eating from her hand and she behaved with him in ways which were highly inappropriate to her junior trainee position.

It had started at her interview. The firm was smallish but prestigious and Abi had been excited at the chance to present her credentials. Which she certainly did, and consequently the interview went like a dream. It was nearly a year ago but Abi remembered vividly the way in which Dom had looked at her when she entered his lair in her fetching little purple dress. She had known immediately that the job was hers. What Abi saw for her part was a short balding chap, barely taller than herself, of about fifty who was bland of face and clearly did not exercise much. The manner belied the appearance. Dominic Dankeschoen had the crisp and decisive air that one would expect from the individual who ran a firm such as this one. He had made the offer, an excellent one, within all of ten minutes and the remainder of the ‘meeting’ was spent on pleasantries. Very pleasantries from the interviewer’s point of view, judging by his expression and demeanour. Towards the end of the allotted hour he had asked if Abi had a boyfriend. Abi had grinned and said “sometimes!”

Their flirting had continued and intensified since then, had in truth become rather shameless. Neither was it wholly contained to the office. There was the occasional intimate drink after work, if Dom asked nicely enough and she was free, and more frequently there was lunch, being whisked off at noon to a fancy restaurant, she was almost always up for that. Little Abi was more than happy to sit there across the table presenting a plunging neckline, to smile and pout coquettishly as the big boss, the man who called all the shots at the firm, showered her with compliments and revealed the latest ways in which he planned to spoil her with brazenly preferential treatment. A ginormous salary rise, for example, and this at a time when the firm was supposedly watching costs, most of the other employees having to accept an increase of virtually nothing at all.


Dom had broken this particular piece of gratifying news at her staff appraisal last month, which was conducted in Abi’s case, and only in her case, outside of the building over a cocktail despite it being in the middle of the afternoon.

“Maybe best to keep it quiet,” Dom told her, the pair of them closeted in a cosy corner of a nearby smart bar.

Abi giggled and said that she would.

She noticed the boss’s attention lingering, as it often did, on her legs and she rewarded him by slowly uncrossing and then recrossing them, her tight skirt riding an inch or so further up her thighs. She was wearing tights today. Black and sheer.

“Oh fuck,” Dom growled, leering openly at the glorious vista.

Abi giggled again. Dom was so into her legs! Well of course he was. Abi had yet to meet the man who wasn’t. She deftly manoeuvred a shoe to the very edge of her toes and let it dangle there.

She took a look around the place. It was almost empty at this time but there were a couple of business types stood together up at the counter. They were talking but both appeared to be more interested in checking her out than in each other. Quelle surprise. Abi preened a little. She tossed her hair, licked her lips, stretched sensuously in her seat, enjoying both the reactions of her random admirers and Dom’s wry amusement at what she was doing for their benefit. She awarded the better looking of the duo a sly smile and popped the olive from her drink slowly and extravagantly into her mouth. The guys were transfixed by the performance and this very much pleased her. Abi loved men ogling her.

Although nothing more than that for the most part. With the glaring exception of the string of hunky ‘boyfriends’ that she would be energetically dating at any one time, with whom she was often insatiable, it was strictly ‘look but do not touch’ with the captivating Abigail Melons. Certainly with guys at work it was. She was first and foremost a tease and was especially incorrigible in this regard at the office, where she would float around looking insanely hot in her sassy little dresses and her short skirts and her revealing tops, luxuriating in the sure and certain knowledge that she was driving every man in the vicinity nuts. Abi loved the thought of her male co-workers getting hard-ons from looking at her, that they all dreamt of fucking her but nevertheless realized that they had no chance whatsoever of ever doing so.

This went for the boss-man too. She had made that crystal clear and Dom had accepted it with good grace. He would not have been able to resist an affair with Abi (could any man?) but understood that it was probably as well if the option was off the table. He was happily married with five children. A first grandson had been born recently. It would be reckless in the extreme to jeopardize all of that. No, this way was better. He got to flirt with and feast his eyes on a luscious young thing and the luscious young thing got benefits such as massive pay rises and a free rein to do whatever she pleased around the office. This was their unwritten bargain and it worked swimmingly for both of them.

The boss did get one or two extras. Such was only fair. For example she regularly played footsie with him under restaurant tables. If they were having a drink together in a sufficiently secluded place Abi would sometimes permit an arm around her, and in such circumstances she might snuggle into him and allow him to do certain things. Nothing too heavy though. She would just let him adore her a little. He could kiss her passionately on the lips, nuzzle at her neck, nibble her ears, relatively mundane and innocent activity of that nature. It was okay for Dom to place a hand on her knee as they were smooching, that was absolutely fine, perhaps even on her thigh, but with the strict understanding that any higher was out of bounds. As for Abi’s hands she would tend to keep them to herself unless she was feeling mischievous, when her fingers would flutter into Dom’s lap, alight on the bulge in his trousers, and she would rest her palm there, pressing down gently, every so often squeezing, making him grunt and groan and squirm about in his seat. And then of course there were the times, and this was only if she was particularly pleased with him for some reason, that she would visit his office and lower the blinds and treat him to an unhurried proper look at her large flawless breasts. But things never went further even on these occasions. Dom would plead with Abi to let him fondle her tits, as they were jiggled almost unbearably just inches from his face, despite knowing that she would only laugh at him and continue teasing. Dom did not mind. Him begging Abi for more was part of the ritual. He knew that she enjoyed it.

Abi took another sip of her martini. She was contemplating matters along these very lines at this present moment. Because a whopping pay rise had sent Dom zooming to the top of the charts as far as she was concerned and hence had qualified him for one of her little ‘visits’ very soon. She resolved to make it a truly memorable one for him. She would push the boat out and surprise her benefactor with a full and slow disrobing, go all the way with it rather than the usual topless only. This time she would strut around his office and show him the lot. Then for good measure she could climb up onto his desk and loll about open-legged and abandoned. She would caress and stroke and finger herself in some nice places and whisper things to him, dirty wanton things, in her softest and cutest baby doll voice, whilst lying there lewd and naked before him. Perhaps she would bend the rules about him touching for just this once. Not her boobs, no way was he getting a piece of them, and definitely not her pussy, but maybe she could flip herself over and allow Dom to plant a few worshipful kisses on her buttocks. Yes, why not. Abi might even allow him to put his tongue in there. The boss gives her an eye-popping raise in salary and in return gets to lick her bum. Little Abi rather liked the sound of that.

She was delighted with the prospect of tons more money. Especially with Dom joking about how everyone else was getting peanuts. Shame she had to keep it secret. Did he really mean that?

“Might tell Fatima though,” she said, testing him out.

Fatima Fogblower was the only other girl at the office and the name, or the first syllable at least, was apposite. If Abigail Melons had been at the front of the queue when the good lord was handing out desirable physical attributes to his earthly creations, then Fatima Fogblower had been at the very back. The size and body shape were singularly unattractive, the face unprepossessing in the extreme, and topping it all off she wore thick spectacles and was cursed with unsightly blotched skin. Quite the package.

“Yeah ok princess. Guess you can tell her if you want to.”

“Oh but I do want to!”

There was a glint in her eye as she said this and Dom chuckled.

It was common knowledge that queening it over the unlovely Fatima was one of little Abi’s favourite pass-times.


Being introduced around the office on her first day, to a frisson of excitement amongst the menfolk, the oh-so-delectable Abi Melons had found it simply hilarious that her one and only female colleague, the ‘competition’ so to speak, was such a howler and she was soon taking advantage of the opportunities for workplace entertainment thus presented.

Secure in being on the right side of the enormous gulf in attractiveness, Abi took a bitchy pleasure in rubbing the less fortunate girl’s nose in it. Whenever their paths crossed she would be full of animated ‘pretty girl’ chatter of a type that was guaranteed to lower Fatima’s spirits. Abi would cover topics such as her current favourite lipstick, where she liked to shop for lingerie, the stupid earrings some amorous hopeful had just gone and surprised her with, the divinely flimsy designer top she had seen at this fab boutique on Saturday and simply had to have, oh and the neat little skirt she had purchased to go with it, such a glam outfit they would make, she couldn’t wait to hit the town in it! She would talk at great length of the complexities of her social whirl, of hot new bars and clubs recently discovered, the achingly trendy restaurants she had been taken to, the host of great parties she had been invited to that were coming up. Most of all, Abi liked to oppress poor Fatima with chapter and verse about her romantic adventures, the very latest on various boyfriend dramas that she was embroiled in, complaining bitterly that it was not easy to juggle so many men, for example she was bored with a particular one but was not sure she ought to dump the guy because he spent so much money on her, took her to such cool places, that by the way she was also starting to get a bit irritated with how chaps at the office were constantly bugging her to go out with them.

Abi became less subtle, more gratuitous, once she sensed how vulnerable Fatima was. She found it impossible to resist victimizing such an inferior specimen and she dropped any pretence that she did not relish doing so. Fatima now dreaded their every interaction as the ‘new girl’ began to torment her quite openly. Abi took to belittling and ridiculing poor Fatima in front of others, and because her audience consisted of men who were in thrall to her physical charms they tended to titter sycophantically along with the snide malicious mockery, sometimes join in, anything to ingratiate themselves with just about the prettiest little thing they had ever laid eyes on. The inevitable outcome was that the wretched Fatima Fogblower, who had been with the firm for years, was turned rapidly into a figure of fun.

Abi had then requested that Fatima be moved to sit next to her.

“That way I can have endless fun with her!” she explained, giggling, during one of her long lunches with the boss. “There will be absolutely no escape for the poor thing. Oh my god, Dom, can you imagine?”

Dom could imagine. He was aware of how Abi treated Fatima. She often regaled him in some detail about fiendish ways she had come up with to persecute the hapless girl. He found it highly entertaining. So he had readily agreed to this devious little suggestion of hers, laughing indulgently and calling Abi a heartless bitch.

“Aren’t I just.”

“But such a gorgeous one,” Dom said.

“Why thank you kind sir! Wanna know the first thing I’m gonna do when I’ve got her sat next to me?”

“What, honey?”

“Put her on a diet. A strict starvation one. No food to pass her lips from the time she arrives in the office to when she leaves. No leaving the building either. So that will be, like, nine solid hours without eating. That’s fine if I do that, babe, isn’t it??”

“Sure it is, beautiful. Tell her that the boss has okayed it. Do her good to lose some of that weight.”

“Exactly! So it’s actually in her interests, right?”

“She ought to thank you for it.”

“Maybe I’ll make her do that. Say thank you, Abigail, for not letting me stuff my fat face at the office.”

“Ha ha ha. And if she refuses you can send her into me and I’ll give her a bollocking.”

“You are such a terrific boss, you know that?”

“I do my best. Ok so that’s settled. We’ll get her moved tomorrow and then she’s all yours. You can do whatever you want with her. Starvation diet plus whatever else you have planned. Poor girl, I dread to think.”

“Oh I have lots of plans.”

“I bet you do.”

“Mmm.”

“Care to share?”

“How long have you got?”

“Ok, an example.”

“Well, like this diet, although we agree that it’s for her benefit, the poor thing is gonna be ravenous by the afternoon, I figure.”

“She’ll be fucking starving.”

“Right, and so what if I now suddenly make a habit of treating myself to a snack at about three thirty. You know, I send one of the guys out to get me something delicious and then I have it at my desk with her sitting there next to me. That would be rather naughty of me, Dom, wouldn’t it?”

“Quite funny though!”

“Chocolate cake perhaps. I love that and I know that she does too. Fatima lives for chocolate cake.”

“You are a wicked girl.”

“I could kind of tantalize her with it first if I wanted to be especially wicked.”

“How do you mean?”

“I could have this big slice of cake on a plate and waft it in her face, so close that she can smell and just about taste it, torture the poor thing like that. Then I whip it away and eat it, smacking my lips and telling her how yummy it is.”

“Love it, babe!”

“Maybe sometimes I’ll make her help me out with it.”

“Actually give her some?”

“Ha ha. No chance. No, what I mean is that I might be feeling a bit lazy, in which case I will just sit there, feet up on the desk, reading a magazine or something, and Fatima can serve me my cake. She can cut it up and feed it to me piece by piece.”

“Abi, honey, you are demonic.”

“Thanks. Oh and if I can’t finish, which I might not be able to, given I will have had lunch, Fatima gets to throw the leftovers in the bin.”

“Well you certainly will have had lunch, Abs, won’t you? You might even have had it with me.”

“I might. In which case I will possibly have already sent Fatima a photo of what me and the boss happen to have ordered that day.”

“Technicolour and high definition?”

“Absolutely! Send it from the restaurant just before we tuck in.”

“Ha ha ha. Great idea, sweetheart. I look forward to it.”

Fatima’s move went as planned the following day. The period since had gone to plan too. To Abi’s plan, that is.

Having Fatima located permanently next to her was a fabulous arrangement. One immediately obvious consequence was that the chasm in looks was emphasized to an extent that was almost laughable, something which amused Abi greatly, since she knew how horribly conscious of it Fatima was. And of course it only made a certain pretty girl look all the more appealing!

For Fatima the desk move was catastrophic because Abi could now torment her pretty much constantly. Abi was the cat with a captive mouse. The ‘diet’ was duly implemented and the fun and games with food were soon in full swing, often with an appreciative audience, but that was the least of it. Abi was cruel and capricious. She bullied Fatima remorselessly. Fatima, go get me a coffee. Fatima, sweetie, could you pop out and get me some tights, I have a hole in these. Fatima, my keyboard is dirty, would you mind giving it a clean. Fatima, would you be an angel and touch up the varnish on my toes. Yeah, do it right now is what I mean. Fatima, could you please go over and tell Richard that Abi really loves that tie he’s wearing today. There was little respite from it all. Fatima’s life at work, once pleasant, was now one of unrelenting misery and humiliation at the hands of the little miss gorgeous beside her.

Abi’s casual sadism knew no bounds. She had the whole firm playing along. Guys had long come to realize that a sure-fire way of scoring points with the office hottie was to insult Fatima, therefore when one or a number of them came over to flirt and fool around, as of course the aforesaid hottie encouraged them to do, they took to making increasingly nasty jokes and disparaging remarks about Fatima’s appearance, the target of this abuse sat there stewing in abject silence, having to listen to every word. People kind of competed in this game of roasting Fatima, seeing who could make Abi chortle the most, and Abi took immense delight in egging them on.

She particularly liked it when her fan club made comments directly comparing the two girls, for instance some guy or other asking Fatima what it felt like to resemble a dump truck and would she not prefer to be totally fucking gorgeous like Abi? Because Abs really is fucking hot, Fatima, isn’t she? I mean, just look at her today. 12 out of 10, am I right? And what the fuck are you? Minus 1 on a good day? Christ, it’s beauty and the beast over here, it really is! Abi would be almost wetting herself, listening to this, and often as not it would continue until a highly distressed Fatima fled to the bathroom in floods of tears. “Oh dear, the poor thing is all upset again,” Abi would exclaim, joyfully, when this happened. “You chaps are just terrible!”

“I’ve decided that we should officially rename her,” Abi announced one day, sat at her desk, surrounded by the usual bunch of fawning admirers. “Let’s just call her Fatty from now on.” She turned to look at Fatima and giggled. “Suits her better, chaps, don’t you agree?” They chuckled and said that it sure did. The defenceless Fatima said nothing. She no longer spoke much at work. The obliteration of her self-esteem had rendered her almost mute. Such was the extent of little Abi’s triumph and domination.


But no matter how appallingly she was treated Fatima had to suck it up. She knew, as did the rest of the firm, that little Ms Melons was ‘special’ in the eyes of the boss. Raising any sort of complaint about her behaviour, however diabolical, could lead only to trouble for the complainant.

The case of Rodney Smallcox was still fresh in the collective memory. It had occurred shortly after the staff appraisals.

Rodney Smallcox was a quiet and diligent young man, rather timid, who occupied a desk next to Abi. She had Fatima on her left and Rodney on her right. She soon sussed him out as the lonely and frustrated type, still living with his parents, his sex life a big fat zero. The ideal foil for an arch cockteaser like Abigail Melons. She was used to having an impact on men, of course, but with Rodney it was particularly and painfully obvious. If she deigned to speak to him he would stammer and blush, struggle to frame a sentence. For the rest of the time he would be snatching yearning sideways glances at her, at her legs especially, the merest glimpse of them clearly being a significant and uncomfortable distraction from his work. The peeping was furtive, Rodney was hoping that the sexy owner of the sexy legs would not notice, but of course she did. Abi always knew when it came to men and that sort of thing.

She decided to have some sport with the poor boy. She took to angling her legs, provocatively crossed in her little skirt, out from under the desk and towards Rodney, flaunting them at him, enjoying his agonized attempts to keep his eyes elsewhere. Futile attempts, because no matter how hard Rodney tried not to look he would always end up mesmerized by the tantalizing display. With them being next to each other, and with how Abi was sitting, her silky thighs were presented almost under his nose. When she could tell that he was staring Abi would sometimes turn the screw further, would heighten the cold-blooded blatant tease by inserting a finger under the hem of her skirt and lazily scratching herself high up there, close to her panties.

Day in, day out Abi tortured Rodney like this, pretending that she didn’t realize what she was doing to him, until on this particular day, when she had become a little bored and was feeling extra mean, she made an abrupt and angry announcement in a voice loud enough for all of the office to hear.

“Rodney, can you please stop perving on my legs the whole time! What on earth is the matter with you?”

Cue general hilarity and excruciating embarrassment for the unfortunate Rodney Smallcox. He went bright red and mumbled something unintelligible, then turned to stare at his monitor. Abi allowed him to do that for a short while, just long enough for him to start to dare to think that it might be the end of the matter, then she moved in for the kill. She turned to him and told him that he must apologize. Rodney did so. In a halting whisper he said that he was sorry for staring at her legs. “Speak up!” Abi snapped. “Everyone needs to hear this.” So he did it again, louder now, his voice high and strained, head twitching with shame. He was utterly mortified but he just about managed to get through it. “Good boy,” said his smirking tormentress, now gurning to the room. People were laughing uproariously. Jesus, what a fucking loser!

“But you must also beg my forgiveness. So please get down on the floor and crawl to me and do that. You may kiss my feet while you’re at it.”

This got a raucous cheer and guys gathered round to see if Rodney would demean himself further and comply. Only Fatima remained seated and stony faced. There was pandemonium, cries of “yeah, c’mon Rod, let’s see you crawl to Abi and kiss her tutsies!” and the like. The noise brought Dominic out from his room to check what the hell was going on.

Rodney looked at the boss as if at a saviour. He found a little of his mojo and explained the situation to Dominic, said that Abi was acting crazy, that she was telling Rodney he had to get on his belly and worship her feet even though all he had done was look at her legs for a second, which Abi had in any case been purposely showing off to him, and furthermore he had already apologized to her for it. Abi was a pricktease, Rodney complained. Why else did she wear skirts like that? She really ought to be disciplined, Rodney said. Or at least should be told that she was bang out of order. How could a guy be expected to do any work when he had a hot looking girl sitting so close and messing with him, getting him all het up the way that Abi was always doing? She just loves flashing her legs off at me. Don’t believe her if she says otherwise. She knows it drives me insane and she’s been doing it for weeks now. Jesus.

Dominic listened gravely to all of this and then he took the two of them, Abi and Rodney Smallcox, to his office and closed the door.

They were in there for over an hour. It was Rodney who emerged first. He was distraught, had clearly been crying. He walked like a zombie to his desk, packed up his belongings and made his way towards the lift. It was the last sighting of him on the premises.

When Abi came out she looked like the cat with the cream. “Guess he should have kissed my feet after all,” she announced contentedly to an avid audience.

“Don’t tell me that the poor bastard been sacked,” said one of the guys. “Oh my god, Abi, that is just too funny.”

Abi grinned and said that Dominic would explain. There would be an email.

And indeed there was. Later that afternoon a missive from the boss arrived in everybody’s inbox. It said that Rodney Smallcox had been let go on account of gross misconduct. Therefore no notice, no pay off, no references. He would no doubt struggle to get another position. This may seem harsh, the memo said, but it was the only viable response to an individual who had violated one of the core values of the firm, which was respect for its female employees. This was more important than ever in the light of the #metoo movement which Dominic was sure that every man there was fully signed up to. So let this be a lesson for everybody. It should not need saying in this day and age, nevertheless say it he would. Just because a pretty girl might choose to wear strikingly short skirts, or whatever, to the office this does not (repeat NOT) give her male co-workers carte blanche to be checking out her lovely legs. Ditto eyeing up her fabulous cleavage if she happens to be displaying plenty of that too. Consent was the watchword here. Guys were perfectly entitled to ogle Abigail, of course they were, but ONLY if they first expressly ascertained that she was happy for them to do so. Consider that to be the official firm policy from this point forward. Oh and the same applies to letching over Ms Fogblower obviously.

The memo was read immediately by everyone and prompted much discussion along the lines of how Abi’s ‘express consent’ to be ogled might best be obtained.

Thankfully the matter was soon resolved by the girl herself. Abi tapped out a quick mail as a follow-up to Dom’s.

“Hi everybody. Just so you know. I got hacked off with Rodney (such a dork!) but I have absolutely no problem with the rest of you. You guys can drool over me any time you like! xxx Abi.

PS: Although I can’t of course speak for Fatty – Fats, do you give the guys permission to ogle you too if they want to?”

Fatima did not reply to this, although a few other people did.

“Thanks, gorgeous, that is SUCH a relief to hear. Looking at you is the best thing about working here. And I don’t think we need to worry about Fatty, do we, because in her case this particular issue is vanishingly unlikely to arise in practice. You know what I mean? I’m sure you do, lol!”

That was from Aloysius Dillard Potter and was one of several along the same lines.

Abi replied to each one, flirting outrageously, and she invited ADP and co to spell out for everyone’s benefit on group email exactly why this issue of blokes wanting to ogle a girl in the office was highly relevant in her case and yet not at all relevant as regards Fatima. They were happy to oblige and Abi spent an enjoyable hour or so reading the ever more elaborate and flowery paeans to her beauty, her all round loveliness, how she was a million trillion times more attractive than the horror that was Fatima Fogblower.

Fatima was reading the emails, somewhat masochistically, and at one point she turned and caught Abi’s eye. Abi stared implacably at her, savouring the pain being inflicted on this unfortunate girl who she had so mercilessly transformed into her abject stooge. Fatima’s expression was truly tortured, a mix of hurt and bemusement and a sort of pathetic pleading. Her eyes were silently begging Abi to stop all of this.

“You ok there, Fatty?” Abi said, her voice soft and needling and dripping with derision. Fatima looked away, unable to hold the other girl’s gloating gaze.

Abi smirked gleefully and moved her chair closer. She dropped her tone to a whisper, so only Fatima could hear.

“Oh you poor creature, how you must wish you were slim and pretty too. All the guys here fancy me, don’t they? Always running around after cute little Abi even though it’s obvious they have zero chance. Still, I do enjoy flirting with them and being a tease. It’s fun to do that stuff. Of course only attractive girls get to do it. Girls like me. It must make you green with envy! Especially since I have several dishy boyfriends competing for me as well. Hey, you know what I do sometimes when I’m feeling extra horny? I sleep with two of them at the same time. Honestly, Fats, I do! I take two naked hunks to bed and they take it in turns to make love to me. We go on for hours. Can you imagine how heavenly that feels? I really hope you can because imagining any sort of guy action is all that a hideous looking girl such as you will ever do. I bet you’ve never even been kissed. Probably never will be. And here’s me able to take my pick and gorge myself. You must hate me very very much. Oh and by the way, my appraisal. Guess what? I’m getting a big promotion. Yeah, I am. Not that I will need to work harder, nothing tedious like that, in fact I won’t have to do anything different at all. The point of the promo is purely so that I can be paid more. Lots more. My salary is doubling! How about that? Plus I was promised the same for next year and the year after. Then I’ll be the highest paid person here apart from Dom himself. Can you believe it? And do you know why, Fatima? Fatty. Fatso. I think you do but I will tell you anyway. It is because I’m a beautiful girl and the boss just loves to make me happy. He knows how I’m forever tormenting you, you know, and he doesn’t mind one bit. Life is terribly unfair, isn’t it?”

Then she had a giggling fit.


The following morning Abi got back on the office email and instigated a couple of fun competitions.

The first one read as follows.

“So guys, back to the subject of you lot being free to ogle me, how about you decide what I wear to work this Friday? Tomorrow in other words. The options are:

(i) An extremely snug-fitting (and really short, hardly more than covers my bum!) little red dress, low neckline obviously, and cute matching pumps?

(ii) A nice black pencil skirt, few inches above the knee, with stockings and suspenders, teamed with stilettos and a sheer (so sheer in fact that it’s more or less see-through) white silk blouse?

(iii) Skin-tight faded blue jeans with open toe sandals and a teeny weeny crop top (no bra BTW so nipples straining through) that reaches down to just below my tits and shows off my perfectly toned belly to the max?

What do you men all think?

No, don’t bother telling me, I know exactly what you men all think.

So each of you take a while to imagine me (I mean REALLY imagine me!) in each of the above outfits and then vote.

Really looking forward to seeing which one wins!

PS: We can make this a weekly thing if you like. Every Thursday I give you three choices and then on Friday I come in wearing whatever is the most popular pick. How does that sound? Would you chaps enjoy that?”

She hit ‘send’ and then went off to see Dom. To do more than see him, in fact. It was time to reward the boss for the great news on her promo and pay rise. She was looking forward to it. He didn’t know it yet but Dominic Dankeschoen was about to be presented with the same view of luscious little Abi Melons as her one of her boyfriends had been in the bedroom that morning, the only significant difference being that the boyfriend had promptly plunged in and pumped her to high heaven and back, whereas Dom, gentleman that he was, would not be doing that. He would be showing some restraint. Not quite his usual level of restraint, there would be brief contact between lips and tongue of boss and bare buttocks of junior trainee, but restraint of almost heroic proportions nevertheless.

It turned out that everyone loved Abi’s idea about her Friday outfits. And yes definitely, gorgeous, please let’s do it every single week without fail. Fantastic. Sentiment was unanimous in this regard. The voting on which outfit, however, was far from unanimous. It was close, extremely close.

Abi emailed the result from Dom’s office. By arranging herself suitably she was able to type it out on her tablet as she was lying stark naked on his desk having her rear attended to.

“Ok chaps, a tight contest but (iii) has the most votes. Which means that tomorrow you will get to see the woman of your dreams frolicking around the office in tight jeans and a ridiculous little crop top. And I’ll leave the bra off, I promise!! xxx Moi.

PS: Dom voted for (ii). He’s disappointed (in private moments he often fantasizes at the thought of me in sheer silk stockings and suspenders) but I told him not to worry, I’d be sure to include that particular choice again next week. So you might bear that in mind.

PPS: Dom also pointed out to me that I am not the only girl here. There is ‘F’ too. And he suggested that in the name of equality in the workplace (very important to the firm!) you guys ought to be able to express an opinion on what SHE should wear tomorrow. But I have managed to talk him out of this. It would be a waste of time, I told him, given that I happened to know that all of you are of the exact same mind as to what the perfect outfit for ‘F’ is, either tomorrow or any other day. An enormous great big sack! LOL.”

For her second competition later that day Abi asked for witty and imaginative specific one-liner comparisons between herself and Fatima. Once everybody had submitted she would pick her favourite and the lucky author would get to take her for a drink this evening. Just the one drink, since she had a hot date later, but she was sure that it was still a great prize and very much worth winning. Hey and who knows, perhaps a little snog in the bar too? Perhaps.

The entries poured in.

Abi was the sweetest and loveliest of fresh roses, Fatty was a dead twig.

Abi was a bottle of chilled vintage champagne, Fatso was a glass of warm tap water.

Abi was the moon and the stars, Fatface was the shit on a shoe.

Etc.

Everyone had a go.

“Men can be really rather poetic sometimes, Fatty, can’t they?” she remarked loudly to Fatima, not bothering to turn and look at her.

At close of play Abi climbed up onto her desk and announced that the result was in. She had decided, she said, so gather round people. She struck a sexy suggestive pose, up on the table, as the guys crowded eagerly around. There was a satisfying and deliciously ego-boosting cacophony of wolf whistles. Abi giggled and rewarded the whistlers with an insinuating hip wiggle and a sultry pout. “So I wonder who will be taking me out tonight?” she teased, prolonging the suspense. It was such a blast to toy with them all! She just adored the way these men were looking at her, like hungry dogs at a juicy bone. She idly played with a button on her blouse, the one that if she went ahead and opened it would cause her fabulous boobs, just barely encased in a sliver of a bra, to pretty much tumble into full sight. The men’s lusting eyes were trained like lazers on her fingers on the button, desperately willing her to do it. She didn’t, no way, but it had the desired effect. They all had serious erections now, Abi was certain of that. She could actually make them out in some cases. A dozen stiff cocks because of her! How delicious! What more could a girl want? Dom had come out of his office and was observing from afar, clearly amused. Abi smiled across and blew him a sardonic kiss. Then she finally put the men out of their misery. A whoop of unabashed triumph from the victor (Paul Pratt) and a loud chorus of disappointed groans from the also rans.

Abi had chosen Paul’s entry not because it was the best, it was downright crude in fact, but because Paul Pratt was in her opinion marginally the best looking of the men who worked there. Not that this was saying a great deal. She also happened to know that Paul had very recently got married, would therefore be out drinking and cavorting with Abi while his brand new wife waited anxiously at home, and that kind of appealed to her. Yes, that was quite an amusing notion. Abi determined on a slight change to the plan. She would have several drinks with Paul and she would canoodle heavily with him. In fact she would go further. She would get him really revved up in a quiet corner of the bar, then she would push him over the edge, send the guy home to his new wife with a sticky mess in his pants, lipstick on his collar and bites on his neck, and reeking of her perfume. Serve him right, wouldn’t it, for even thinking of straying?

And that is more or less what happened.

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