Posted on

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

I was in the conference room along with two of my team mates, waiting for our meeting with the new manager. It was our first meeting, and he was visiting from Bombay, where he is based. He had joined us recently and although I was on some group emails he was marked on, we were not formally acquainted yet. There wasn’t much time even now – this was supposed to be a meet and greet followed by a client call. But his flight from Bombay was delayed and it was almost time for the client call.

I’m 32 years old, and I’ve spent the last 10 years working at the Delhi office of this firm. I joined very young, with no prior experience and a Master’s degree from what will be regarded as a tier-2 university. I was not overly ambitious, was comfortable with the slow pace of my promotions. I worked hard but I was not the most confident or natural choice to be in leadership positions – I was shy, overweight, and very far from the ‘corporate babe’ positioning other girls were vying for. I did not speak up and was more comfortable doing what I was told to do. I was happy to be out of the rat race.

I normally wore Indian clothes – loose fitting and fully covering my body; today, on a whim, I wore a dress, given it will be my first meeting with the new manager. It was a black dress, landed a couple of inches above my knees, and since I bought it two years back, had grown a bit tighter. I saw myself in the mirror and wasn’t pleased with the bumps around my waist, or the cellulite on my thighs that were showing when I sat down. I have a round, chubby face that people find cute – but today somehow I looked tired because of the long night I had spent preparing notes for today’s client call.

I somehow wanted to impress the new manager, Pramit, and so I didn’t mind the extra effort in doing the notes. I hadn’t met him before, but there was a buzz around the office that he was very smart. I like smart people. I also picked up at the water cooler that he wasn’t married – which made me wonder why. He must be doing well financially as a manager, and I found it odd he wasn’t married. I assumed he must be in his late thirties or early forties given typical promotion cycles – I’m two levels below manager.

It was three minutes to 10 AM, the time of the client call, and Neha, Karan and I were wondering if we should get started. Neha was wearing a sleeveless, V-neck dress, amply showing her cleavage and it was clear she was angling to impress Pramit. I was hoping that my notes and hard work will be appreciated too. Neha and Karan were on the opposite side of the small square table, and I was next to the empty chair on the other side, with the polycom in the middle of the table.

Exactly one minute before 10, a dashing young man, in his late twenties strolled in. He was tall, with well defined shoulders; he wearing a suit with no tie, and the first three buttons of his shirt were undone. That was Pramit and I now know that he is 28 – a good four years younger than me – and yet two levels above me. Top class academic pedigree, a passion for squash and a university debating champion. The quintessential fast-riser: I learnt my company had doubled his salary to convince him to join us. I had never seen someone with so much brash confidence and arrogance – a combination that can best be described as swag.

He walked in wheeling his suitcase in, and stood right next to me. I could smell his perfume – it was exquisite – and I imagined it was radiating directly from his body through the unbuttoned shirt. The door was ajar – he didn’t bother to close it. There was very little time to introduce. “I’m Pooja”, I blurted and gave my hand out. In the split second that I had his slender fingers in my hand, I felt a tingle down my spine. “It’s already ten, and we should probably get started”, I said.

He ignored me. And proceeded to shake Neha’s hand – he was holding her hand firm

while talking to her. Neha was looking hot – and was talking with a smile on her face which made it clear that she was smitten.

Unlike me, she wasn’t tongue tied and was trying to flirt: “Good to see you Pramit, hope it was a good flight in.”

“It was terrible. I hate 7 am flights – they mess with my sleep and I missed my workout.”

“Ouch. We’ll let you get to your hotel soon today escort bursa evening.”

“Nah. It’s alright. Thanks for looking so stunning, I’m already refreshed.”

My face turned red as I witnessed this exchange – a 60 second chat and arguably one of the longest ‘handshakes’. Neha’s slut-act worked and given I was the only other one woman in the room, there wasn’t even any real competition: she was 34C, and wore size 8 dresses; I was 36DD, and 16.

It was well past 10. Pramit didn’t bother shaking Karan’s hand.

“Get the door Karan, and Pooja – dial in, will you?”

He said that without even looking at us, and slumped in his chair. The client was already on the call, and I sat down staring hard at my notes, while still unable to get the image of their clasped hands out of my head. Pramit was cocky on the call – did not apologise for being late – and proceeded to give what was easily the best oral presentation I’ve heard. He was charming, brilliant and so utterly comfortable and confident. He stretched his legs and put them on the table, and continued with ease. I kept looking at my notes while stealing glances at his feet perched on the table, in front of me – his shoes with pointed tips looked slim and elegant – just like him – and were immaculately polished.

I was trying hard to stay focused on the call, which was due to end in ten minutes. There was a question from the client about the specific sources for our assumptions and our rationale – it was a minor detail that Pramit was obviously not across and he looked at us at once, as he put the call on mute. I quickly remembered it and shuffled through my notes and handed him the sheet and pointed with my pen towards the specific line. He took the sheet and the pen from me, and looked at me and said, “that looks right.” I was relieved – satisfied that despite looking fat and clumsy, I still had a purpuse in the room, and I was glad to be of use to Pramit. He proceeded to unmute and instead of answering, he said: “Good question, and we have the details. Pooja will explain.”

I suddenly went blank. I don’t usually speak on calls and after the heartracing 20 minutes I’ve had sitting next to Pramit, staring at this shoes and drinking in his perfume, I simply couldn’t find my voice. Finally I mumbled, “Sir, you have the sheet, why don’t you please explain.”

I have never called any of my other managers Sir before – and we were very much on first names basis in the room, and even with the client. I was embarrassed and sank into my chair as Pramit proceeded to answer based on my sheet. The pen he was holding fell and he turned and looked straight in my eye. Within a second I knelt down and picked up the pen, and held it out for him – he didn’t take it back but instead handed my sheet with the notes back to me.

The call ended and he looked at me, “Why didn’t you explain when I asked you to?” I told him I forgot and he chuckled, “Did you really make these notes?”

“Yes, I did. Worked all night to prepare them, but somehow forgot at that moment.” He smiled and I relaxed a bit. “You must be tired, you should have a coffee.”

“No no, I’m fine.”

“I could use a coffee. Fetch me one, will you? Black. No sugar.” He said this with his eyes closed, stretching back on the chair, hands behind his head, and feet still on the table. I had just been treated like a peon or an intern after ten years of work – no one had ever asked me to get coffee before. I couldn’t say no, could I? “Sure, Sir”, I said and headed out. I could have said Pramit instead of Sir, but I had already addressed him as Sir once before and it anyways seemed more appropriate given the task of fetching his coffee.

I could breathe again as I walked out of the room. I quickly made my way to the pantry,

picked the best mug available, and filled it with coffee and headed back. I could hear them talking – mostly Pramit and Neha – even before I opened the door. And when I opened, to my utter surprise, Pramit had shifted his legs from the table to the seat next to him, the one I was sitting in. He was more comfortable as his legs were not up an incline and his feet, covered by his shoes, were resting comfortable on my seat. Shoe tips pointing sharply upwards – and majestically erect as if they would bursa merkez eskort have penetrated my vagina even if I were sitting there.

“No sugar, right?” chipped in Neha, sitting while I stood holding his coffee waiting for him to take his feet off my chair. He stretched his hand out, took the coffee mug, and had a sip. And proceeded to give us all instructions on what needed to be done next as follow up to the client call. Karan dutifully took notes for all of us – he was the youngest and was a really nice kid. Neha didn’t bother – she just kept looking at Pramit, pretending to nod. And I couldn’t take notes, as I was still standing.

This went on for five minutes. I was utterly humiliated – made to stand like I was being punished, while the rest of them were sitting. But the sound of his voice, the shine of his shoes, the smell of his perfume, and his very presence – somehow made the humiliation feel different. There was an air of excitement around the room, and there was definitely something I could feel within me too.

He finally wrapped. And the three of us proceeded to leave. I put my papers back in my bag, and Karan was mercifully holding the door open. Neha was reluctant to leave, but Pramit had his eyes closed wasn’t engaging her as much as before. I was glad

he lost interest in her – I knew she will drum up small talk again, but for now it was clear he was done with her, and all of us frankly. I walked out first, and then Neha, and just as Karan was about to close the door, I heard Pramit’s voice: “Pooja” was all he said, and I knew I’d been summoned.

I walked back in holding my bag and it was just the two of us alone. He still had his feet on my seat, and even though the other two seats were now free, I didn’t feel like sitting down. “I’m disappointed in you”, was all he said.

There was a momentary silence. I began to sweat – visibly on my forehead and I could feel the wetness in my armpits and just below the base of my bra. For some reason my breasts stiffened, and I could still not say anything.

He looked up at me, and stared straight into my eyes. I trembled and went “Sorry, Sir – I will remember the notes better and I will be more prepared to answer questions.” He waved his hand motioning me to stop.

“It’s not your job to handle the clients, that’s my job. You’re a long way from getting there. All I expect is you to keep the details handy for me, take notes and do what is asked of you.”

That was a relief. “Yes, Sir.”

It was a few minutes into the conversation and I was still standing, and he hadn’t bothered to ask me to sit. I was ok with that, his last comment, putting me in my place, was comforting. I thought to myself that I’ll be glad to just be in his presence – handle his papers, organise his notes, bring him coffee and even shine his shoes. I don’t know where that thought came from and I was about to look at his shoes and imagine shining them when he spoke again.

“I’m disappointed because you’re not professional.” He went back to sipping his coffee and I stood there in stunned silence. Nobody has ever called me unprofessional. I should have been angry but I was not. I could feel my eyes well up, and then felt a trickle down my cheek.

He saw it too. “I can help you get better. It’ll take time but I’ve done this for others.” I brushed the trickle off my cheek – still in a total fog on what he had in mind – but alteady feeling better about the tone of his last statement.

I muttered, “Yes, Sir.”

“Now that is the first thing we need to change. You calling me Sir. That may be what you have in mind for this relationship, but you can’t say in front of others.”

He chuckled, and finally I could feel my breath again, and I managed to smile and say “Yes of course, Pramit.” He stopped smiling. “Don’t call me Sir in front of others is what I said. There is no one here now, right?”

There was a sternness in his voice now, and I knew exactly what I had to say. “Yes, Sir”

He gave the empty coffee mug back to me. Another 15 seconds passed – with me standing like a lamb that has just been hit by a live electric wire. I had my bag in one hand and his empty mug in the other. Sweat all over me by now. “Do you want more coffee, bursa sınırsız escort Sir?” I finally managed. His reply was matter of fact: “Not now. I will tell you when.”

My role as his coffee fetcher was now formalised. While clearly beneath my title, this clarity brought a sigh of relief. The conversation was not over though.

“You need to look more professional, not like this.” He was definitely not smiling and so this was a proper reprimand. “Sorry, Sir. I usually wear Indian formals but I thought this was more formal.”

I looked down at myself and waited for him to say something. He did not and to break the silence I said, “I will loose weight to look more professional, Sir.”

He snapped: “Who is asking you to lose weight. I like meat on the bones.” I had no idea how to respond. No man has ever spoken that way to me. He continued, “The dress is fine. I wasn’t talking about it. Lose the flats and wear high heels. It’ll be good to see your ass jiggle as you walk on the heels.”

I literally had my mouth half open. Here was this incredibly good looking, successful, and articulate man – wanting to see my ass jiggle. I realised at that moment that I was very wet inside – and it was not sweat.

Pramit was his cool self. I realised he has done this before and was completely at ease. “You need to do something about your face. You look so tired with bags under your eyes, it’s unattractive.”

Wow. He had noticed. But was not impressed. By my standards, my face was the best part of my body. But not to him – he has seen better faces, and found my ass and the prospect of its jiggling appealing.

“I’ll go to the salon, Sir.”

He wasn’t happy with that. “What you need is an anti aging potion that actually works. You like a 40 year old aunty.”

“I’m only 32, Sir.”

“Who cares. You look 40. Your face has been drained of all life.”

What does that mean – I didn’t have the courage to ask. As I stood there dumbly, my

eyes welled up again and tears rolled down my eyes.

“Sorry, Sir. That was not professional.”

“That’s ok. Crying is good for you. It removes toxins on your face. In the same way, you need something natural and pure to help with anti aging.”

Is he also a beauty expert, I wondered. “I’ve helped many women working under me look better and feel younger. I can do that for you too.”

Still clueless, but grateful for being counted as one of the many that have benefitted working under him “Thank you, Sir.”

“It’s all up to you”, he smiled. “You do a good job, and the benefits are all yours. Understood?”

I didn’t want to disappoint him again and I clearly couldn’t think straight. My feet were trembling and a lot had happened that morning, and I was no longer prepared to guess what he was referring to. I decided to tell him the truth and own up.

“I’m not sure I understand, Sir. I always try to do a good job but don’t know what you mean. I’m used to more direct instructions and I will do whatever you ask me to.”

“Of course you will and I will guide you all the way.” I looked up at him for more details but he was smiling. “Have you ever had a proper facial?”

And before I could answer, “Not the one at the salon. Have you ever had your face covered with fresh semen, straight off a man’s cock?”

I dropped the coffee mug and stared blankly at him. “Pick it up”, he raised his voice and I immediately went on my knees to pick up the glass. “What I meant when I said you’ll need to do a good job, is that I want you to suck me. Worship my cock. Relax my muscles and earn your daily quota of semen. Some days you’ll keep it your face and on others you’ll consume it. And in no time you’ll start looking younger.”

I wasn’t sure if I had peed myself or if I was dripping wet inside. The idea of worshipping this man’s cock, and have his tall, handsome frame lord over me while I have him in my mouth was immensely exciting. And on top of that, I will get to be bossed around during the day, fetching his coffee and standing obediently in his presence.

I had finally found my purpose at work. “Yes, Sir.”

“I’m staying at the Oberoi. Come over at 8 tonight. Don’t forget the heels. And wear something short and tight. I should get a hard on by just looking at you.”

I could relax now. I smiled, probably for the first time that morning. “Yes, Sir. If its tighter than this, I may not be able to kneel down.”

“Stop thinking, just do what I ask you to. And btw, you won’t be wearing anything when you kneel down tonight.”

I smiled again “Yes, Sir.”

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir yanıt yazın

E-posta adresiniz yayınlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir