Under Her Thumb - Sex Stories

Under Her Thumb

... cloud of happiness. I fall asleep with a faint smile on my face. One surprise after the other I feel warm and cozy when I wake up the next morning, despite the fact that the temperature in my apartment has dropped to the low fifties. The shit on my body has dried and caked, and small brown flakes scurry down as I get up. I take an extensive shower and douse myself with deodorant, yet I can’t quite seem to get rid of the shit smell. I guess it has encrusted itself in my nose. I shave and dress quickly, then leave for work without breakfast. Back in the office, I walk straight to my desk without greeting anyone and get to work. The foul shit smell seems to be hanging around me like a cloud. None of my co-workers appear to notice anything, though. Not even Mrs. Catnip, the freight cashier, crumples her nose – as she will invariably and ostensibly do every time she catches me ripping a silent fart - when she approaches me with a report request. At three minutes to ten, I report with Sara Pennington, Ms. Saunders’ secretary. She is a dull young thing, mocked by most of the men in the office because of her plain looks and exaggerated shyness. ‘Ms. Saunders, Mr. Peterson is here to see you.’ Ms. Saunders’ voice croaks back over the intercom. ‘Have him wait for a minute. I’m in the middle of something.’ Sara looks at me with her typical sullen look. ‘Ms. Saunders says you wait here for a minute. She’s in the middle of something.’ ‘Thank you.’ I sit in one of the uncomfortable ...

... chairs in front of Sara’s desk. Half an hour goes by, then the door to Ms. Saunders’ office opens and Mr. Wordsworth, manager of the finance department and my immediate superior, steps out with a grave look on his face. My heart skips a beat. He stops in front of me and opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He shuts it again and seems to be regrouping his thoughts. ‘I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for, young man.’ Then he struts out. My first thought is that she must have told him of my transgression. Mr. Wordsworth is my mentor in the company and he looks upon me as a son. Ms. Saunders’ account must have distressed him severely. On the other hand, I can’t quite figure out his remark to me. Ms. Saunders has not stepped out of her office. I look at Sara, but she is painting her finger nails and pays no attention to me. After another twenty minutes, Ms. Saunders is on the intercom again. ‘Tell Mr. Peterson to step into my office, please.’ Sara get sup and opens the door for me. ‘Mr. Peterson to see you, Ms. Saunders.’ There is a strange glee on her face when I walk past her. Does she know something? Ms. Saunders’ office is large. There is a sitting area to the right with a black leather couch and matching armchairs, and a round conference table to the left. Ms. Saunders’ desk is in the back in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window with a view of downtown Manhattan. ‘Ah, Peterson. Sit down.’ Ms. Saunders is sitting behind an enormous oak wood ...