Letter to My Manager

by BM

Copyright© 2010 by BM

Erotica Sex Story: A new employee is forced to leave her dream job. She has a crush on her older Manager. This is her last chance to tell him.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   .

Ms. Alexa Logan
Systems Specialist
Niobrara Energy

Dear Sir,

Regretfully we have committed to a date for my departure, which is mutually agreeable. You know the family circumstances that have forced this situation on me and I leave with a true sense of loss. Please listen to me patiently, This is my last chance.

I have been employed in this position for over a year now and in that time I believe I have worked hard to fulfil the role expected of me. Your instruction, guidance, and advice have been invaluable in my development.

It was with some trepidation that I changed careers and entered this technical field. My university course was exiting but demanding and I have became knowledgeable and qualified in my chosen subjects. As the course progressed I knew that instinctively I had picked a profession that I would excel in. Like any graduate, the difficulty of entering the market place to find the vital first job was huge. Time after time I was interviewed but passed over for more experienced candidates. I was in competition with people who had chosen this route as a first career choice, and who had, as a result gained these so valuable practical skills.

An acquaintance, who also knew you, told me of an opportunity in your organisation, and suggested that I make the call. This was a position that had not yet been advertised, I had no competition. With some trepidation I called you. Your voice was warm and seemed inviting. Pressing on, I outlined who I was, and who gave me the contact. We talked at some length, and I started to feel positive about the opportunity. When you asked me to come for an interview my heart raced, this was too much to expect.

I spent days in preparation. I researched the company and listed where I would be active. I planned ways to show my initiative and present opportunities that would benefit us both, but in truth, primarily me. I tried and rejected many times, my wardrobe, my makeup and my hair style. Did I want to be a strictly no-nonsense professional? too cold, an open an engaging team player? too general, a flirtatious bright light? too trashy. I needed a bit of everything. Once decided I hoped I had the balance right but time would tell.

We met at the reception area, I was surprised, I thought you would have someone bring me to your office. My first impression was very positive. I hoped yours was. You were broad and slim, I imagined an older man with bald head and a paunch. Your handshake was warm and firm, you were friendly but formal. I immediately wanted to impress you.

Most of the interview is now a blank. I know we talked about my very limited experience, my dissertation, and a lot about my previous work, skills, and experience. Did that sway you?

After the interview I felt drained. I left, shaking your hand with a deep dread that I had said the wrong thing, conveyed the wrong impression, or that the whole exercise had just been a courtesy for your friend.

Days passed, before you called and offered me the position, which I gushingly accepted in my happiness. I clicked off my phone and screamed with joy, then came the feeling of dread that I would fail. I was amazed that I had landed the job with such little experience. Wait, was there an alternative agenda in hiring me? I did wonder. Was I too obvious?

The first month with you was hell. I felt as if I would never manage to complete anything. You had to show me some things a number of times. You were always patient and reassuring.

I looked for signs of?the Agenda?. There was none. You were warm and friendly but with no innuendo. There was no careless caress or touching. I sensed you watching me but could never catch you doing it. I was however, always aware of you.

As time passed I became more assured. You appreciated my work. I felt so confident that I started to suggest improvements. I was delighted that you even considered them and elated when you adopted two. Six month into the role, I was a fully fledged if lightly experienced professional, an equal member in a terrific team. We interacted constantly, and I loved my position. I thought you were more relaxed with me. You complimented me more on my appearance. You even touched my shoulder or waist occasionally. When our hands accidentally touched, you did not draw back, and I certainly did not. You were more blatant at watching me. Whenever I caught you looking at my chest you did not look away, but glanced up at my eyes, challenging. When I sat beside you at the morning conference, you always noticed my legs.

But nothing more.

I tried to encourage you. Every night I selected my lingerie as carefully as my clothes for the next day. In the mirror I practiced moves that would discreetly reveal my cleavage to you. Only in your company did I touch my skirt to draw your attention to my thighs, smoothed my hand over my shin or tapped my foot to emphasise my legs. Only for you did I cross my legs and dangle my sandal from my red painted toes. For everyone else, I was an ice queen.

You did nothing

Your eyes showed appreciation, darkened to warmth and occasionally blackened to lust, but you made no move on me.

That day when I came to you with my family news, you immediately recognised the outcome, that I would need to leave. You dropped everything, you took me to the stairway, the only place for a private conversation in public. You watched my tears flow. I warmed to your words of regret and sympathy, then, then finally, you hugged me. I melted against you, I did not want you to release me. We parted in a start as the maintenance man in his khaki uniform came up the stairs. Did he catch us. Did he think we were sexual. I blushed at the thought and the risk. Would I suffer from the gossip without the reward of the act?

As my leaving day approached I became more proactive. I touched your arm to draw your attention to details in my work. A memory of an old movie, a wartime love story, came to me. The spy heroine was advised that?if you want a man to kiss you, stand close to him?. It became almost comical. For a few days I felt at times were were Siamesed at the hip. But nothing.

I want you

I want you before all the sand runs out of the glass.

I want your broad hands on my naked chest, pulling on my nipples and gripping my pale breasts hard enough to leave dark marks, your marks.

I want you to run your hand up my skirt to my panties. I will be wet for you and you will feel my approval.

I want to lean over you one quiet afternoon while you are at your desk. I want to fill your nose with my scent, I want you to feel the nipple of a bra-less breast on your back and place my hand over yours. I want to whisper in your ear that I have don?t have any panties on, only for you

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