"Wow," he said as he drove one thumb into me unceremoniously. I tensed a little and he shoved the other one in, using both to spread my unprepared pussy as far as he could. "Does that hurt?" he asked.
"Answer the boy," Mr. Shaver ordered after I continued to stay silent under his son’s exploration.
"Yes. It hurts."
He stopped pulling and put just two fingers in, twisting and curling them inside me, feeling my insides, drawing out more of my juice, which was quickly soaking his hand starting to run down my thighs.
"What about that?" he asked.
"No," I replied absently. Suddenly my focus wasn’t on the too-young man probing at my pussy but on his father, who was picking up the phone and dialing three short numbers. An extension.
"Morning Pete," he said in his business voice. "Thank you, yes I’d like you in my office ASAP. We have something to discuss. Sure, finish your meeting, ten minutes would be fine."
I let closed my eyes and let my forehead fall to the desk. It was going to be a long morning. Just then I yelped as Travis boldly rammed his wet thumb into my asshole.
"How about that?"
"Yes!" I replied. It hurt worse coming out; I could feel the flesh of my sphincter turning out slightly as he removed his thumb. Mr. Shaver wasn’t that fond of ass play, I wasn’t used to it. Yet.
"I wanna see her tits," Travis told his father as he stood up and stepped back from me.
"Well, show the boy your tits," he ordered, finishing his cigarette and stamping it out in an expensive black ashtray.
I stood up and turned around. My blouse that day was the high-necked type that buttoned halfway down the back. I unbuttoned as far as I needed and tugged the blouse down over my breasts, making them jiggle as the tighter collar part moved over the mound of my breasts to rest at my waist and elbows. The bottom was still tucked in and the cuffs buttoned tight at my wrists, and could I move my arms from my side; the effect was a little like being bound. I would know.
"Wow," the boy said again. He reached forward and took my breasts in both hands, feeling their weight and resiliency, digging his fingers in a little too hard. "How big are they?"
"36 D," I replied, not waiting for his father to order me to do so. I’m proud of my breasts. Full and heavy, with dark rosie-brown nipples; years of being diligent in wearing a bra left them high and tight despite their size. Twenty-two and I’d never gone a day without good support since I’d started developing in sixth grade. Not a day until I worked here, anyway.
That’s how Pete Townsend found me: naked except the bunch of clothes at my waist and my high heels, standing dutifully while a teenage boy squeezed and bounced my tits in his hands. It was amazing how fast his face went from shock to excitement.
TO BE CONTINUED
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