Tracy's Legs - Sex Stories

Tracy's Legs

... course I remembered petite, pretty Tracy, her slender and incredibly long legs and the daily changing overknee stockings that left a teasing handful of soft, creamy flesh visible and made hearts beat faster wherever she went and wiggled her tight, shapely bum. “She left rather abruptly.” Something almost gleeful flickered over Trudy’s eyes, and my chest constricted. She couldn’t know, could she? I hadn’t seen her pull the paper sheet out of her purse that she put on the table and slid in front of me. My heart stopped and the blood rushed in my ears like a waterfall. One glance was enough to ascertain that I knew these words. They were mine, a neat printout of my most intimate thoughts which I had thought safely and soundly hidden away in my Google account. “You should always lock your computer, dear Jenny.” Sarcasm trickled from Trudy’s tongue like sticky honey. “Oh, Tracy,” she began to recite my words in a mocking, ethereal sing-song, “you have no idea what you do to me each day, how you torture me with your beautiful legs. Every second of your presence makes me want to fall to my knees and worship their soft skin, run my lips all over...” Her voice trailed off and my face turned beet red. “What…” My own voice broke, and I had to clear my throat. This was so personal and enraging and embarrassing. “You’ve got no right to…” “I might not. But I don’t care!” “Oh god. What do you want?” Her face brightened. “I want a nice, friendly colleague who does what she’s told at work ...

... and never protests when she’s assigned work.” She tilted her head. “One who makes sure my coffee is ready when I arrive at work, who fetches me lunch and is generally doing her best to make my job easier.” “You want a slave?” “Now, there’s quite a difference still between a dedicated co-worker and a slave. Let me offer you a deal.” She waved her hand, and when I looked in the direction she gestured at, the protests already on the tip of my tongue died. “Tracy!” My lips formed her name without conscious thought. There she was, wearing black and grey patterned over-knee stockings and matching black, gleaming leather boots that hugged her calves intimately. She was walking in our directions and looking directly into my eyes, meticulously setting one foot in front of the other and softly rubbing her thighs together with each step. And she came closer. I froze on my seat, wondering if she was about to sit down next to me, but she slid my drink to the side and stepped onto the bench, swung one of these perfect legs over my legs and set down right in front of me, her thighs slightly parted and two bands of naked skin crying out for my touch from just inches away. “Trudy told me that you’re a very naughty woman, Jenny,” she purred. I felt my chest heave. “She told me you were staring at me all the time, ogling me, thinking wicked things.” I tried everything to keep my emotions in check, but I couldn’t even come up with something to think of. All there was were these legs, slender and ...