Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 03

"You look nervous, Tiffany," he said. "Do I make you nervous... or are you just shy today?"

"Well it's just so..."

"So what?" he pressed her.

"Revealing, sir."

"I don't think so. You have panties on, haven't you?"

"Of course!"

"So; you're all covered-up then. No need to worry. And you look cute now rather than like some Holly Homemaker who crochets her own clothes."

"No, sir, I—"

Ian cut her off with a dismissive wave and retreated behind his desk. From a lower drawer he extracted a bottle of blended whisky and opened it.

"Here," he said as he tilted the bottle above her half-empty coffee, "To calm your nerves. I'd join you, but of course that would be unethical what with patients to attend to later. But you should go ahead. You seem very tense."

Tiffany's eyes widened as the bottle glugged three, four and then five times into her mug, brimming it full.

"Oh, um sir, I... I don't think—"

"How old are you again?"

"Twenty-two, but—"

"Fine then; no excuses. A little nip will take the edge off."

He re-plugged the bottle with a squeak and lifted Tiffany's mug toward her. She accepted it with a reluctant expression.

"Bottoms-up!" he smiled, hoisting his own unadulterated coffee.

Out of habit Tiffany briefly smiled and then managed a small sip.

"Ooh! Wow that's strong, sir."

Ian shut the bottom drawer of his desk with the bottle inside, walked passed her and shut the door of his office, too.

Her eyes followed his movements vigilantly. When he flopped into one of the little leather armchairs in the opposite corner of the room, she took another sip.

Ian patted his knee and said, "Come here so we can talk about your day."

Butterflies materialized in her stomach. She stalled, evaluating him over the rim of her mug. The idea of sitting on his knee like a schoolgirl in this now-tiny skirt made her queasy. She was grateful for the alcohol. She took another, much deeper swig and exhaled as the whisky heated her throat.

Ian patted his knee again, beckoning her.

She ambled toward him, clutching her warm drink in both hands and trying to maintain some semblance of courage. When she reached the foot of his chair, she removed one hand to her hip and asked:

"Yes sir?"

"Have a seat," he stated calmly.

Tiffany saw his eyes wandering the length of her figure. She crossed her ankles and ran a protective hand across the band of her midriff exposed by the forward drape of her little top.

"Sir, I..." she began solemnly. "My skirt is too short now. I'm not sure I can sit... there... without—"

"We're going to have a friendly chat; manager to employee. Now quit stalling."

When he patted his knee again she had to stifle a grin. She had been prepared for a little flirting and groping today, but the path Mitchell seemed to be leading her down felt truly dangerous. She had no idea how far it led.

She wished she'd worn different underwear too; something with more than a ribbon of back coverage.

After another anxious pull from her mug she swallowed. Her entire chest warmed. She turned halfway around and slowly lowered her bottom onto Ian's left thigh.

Immediately she felt a hand on her bare hip, up under the side of her skirt.

She twisted toward his face and settled, holding his shoulder for balance. She tried to remain calm but was disconcerted by the feel of trousers against her bottom and the intimacy of his hand.

Ian pulled her deeper into his lap, forcing her legs to curl between his. Her right boob became very near to his chin.

"Now, Tiffany," he began in a fatherly tone, "While you finish your coffee let's discuss today's schedule."

She nodded over-seriously, looking down into his eyes while keeping her lungs full and her breathing shallow so her posture would not slouch. She folded her legs carefully; knees and ankles together. Her right hand now lay across the back of the chair, behind his head. Her left hand held her mug above the negligible lap of her skirt.

Whiskey was evaporating through her sinuses.

Ian began describing the upcoming staff meeting where she would be the principal item on the agenda. As he spoke he held her close by the hip and silently relished the feel of her legs between his. Soon his right hand began to wander the periphery of her clothing, making her flinch or squirm whenever it transited a ticklish spot.

Her pendant earrings swung each time she moved. She watched his lips and began to feel buzzed from the alcohol. Her focus narrowed and the rest of the room faded until all she knew was that her boss' mouth was so close to her right nipple that she could feel his breath through the weightless silk.

She did her best to listen but it was difficult. Other, conflicting urges began to blossom. Her anxious grin became irrepressible.

Ian was talking about the frequency of phone messages from sperm-donors requesting appointments and how he wanted to see an increase in new, younger ones too. Donor-recruitment would be an important part of her job, he said, and was the main reason she was to keep herself on display in the lobby during business hours.

She was barely listening.

As he spoke his gaze followed his right hand's roving fingertips, drinking-in the subtleties of her skin and shape. He played games with her sensitivities, drawing lines up and down her bare thighs, gently brushing the silk that hung loose below her breasts, tickling her goose bumps, fondling the D-ring of her choker, etcetera.

Before long he knocked down one of her top's spaghetti straps. They both waited to see how long she would delay before fixing it.

Tiffany felt her grip on this situation loosening. His leg was gently bouncing under her bottom. She worried about the thinness of her panties.

Through a variety of non-verbal cues, he convinced her to let both spaghetti straps slip down. The silk shell crept lower. He encouraged it with little tugs and brushes until it hung on the verge of falling, barely concealing her areolas and arrested only by the prominence of her nipples. Then he stopped fiddling and stared.

"Lovely," he whispered.

She could see the lust in his eyes and felt her own body edging toward a strange type of awakening as well. It was all wrong, she knew, but so intensely erotic that it pulled like gravity. Her boss wanted her. That alone made her feel naughty and, despite all evidence to the contrary, somewhat empowered.

She drained the remainder of her spiked coffee in three swallows and then leaned over to set it on the table.

His hands stole this opportunity to move; one tucking farther under her ass and the other covering her left breast.

She straightened and looked into his eyes. Her lips parted, radiating spirits. Both his hands squeezed. Her breath caught.

She decided maybe she could enjoy this.

Maybe.

Ian recognized her trace acceptance and circled her left areola through the silk, gently at first but gradually tightening until he pinched her nipple and tugged.

She winced and inhaled. A tingly sensation zinged all the way to her crotch and back again, looping for as long as he pulled. When he let go she involuntarily sighed. That nipple now stood much prouder than its twin.

"Hoh-kay..." she whispered. "Maybe that's a little much..."

He pinched her other nipple.

"Sir, please! I'm..."

He pulled, rolling her stiff nub between his thumb and forefinger, saying: "You're going to be a lovely office girl for us, aren't you?"

"Ooh-mm... Mm-him, f'you say so."

Both her nipples were now well-distended.

"Show me," he whispered.

"I already am, sir."

"No. Let it down all the way. I want to see you naked."

"No WAY," she panted, fixing one of her straps at last, unable to suppress that urge any longer.

He cupped her other breast and squeezed it. His left hand tightened under her ass.

"You like playing innocent, don't you?" he asked.

She squirmed, clutching his forearm and trying not to tip toward his face.

"No..." her voice squeaked, clearly affected by the compression being enforced on her. "I... I just think this... this is maybe as far as we should go, sir."

"What's the reason to stop here?" he asked, releasing her boob and then stroking its silk-covered nipple back and forth with one finger while his other hand maintained a firm grip on her butt.

"Please... don't—Ah! Just stop for a sec, sir! A... a little flirting is okay, but I... I can't just—"

He pulled her close, still repeatedly swiping one nipple but also now breathing against her skin as a challenge: "You agreed to certain things in our interview, remember?"

"Yes but—"

"Part of why I hired you is because I knew you'd be good at this."

"Good—Ah!" she flinched. "Good at what?"

"All of it: flirting, following instructions, relieving me of pent-up stress..."

She twisted in his lap, unnerved by the proximity of his hand to her panties. That's when she noticed the rather obvious erection beneath her.

"But I... I can't like..."

"What can't you do, Tiffany?" he asked, hooking the web of his hand under her breast as if to weigh it, and then squeezing tightly. "What?"

"Hahh! No, sir, come ON—" a squeal interrupted her. "You can't do that."

"Do what?"

"THAT!" she squeezed his wrist for emphasis, resisting its attentions to her chest. "You can't just touch me wherever you want. You're my boss. I can't be your girlfriend."

"Oh... well," he began calmly. "That's okay. I don't want a girlfriend."

They both stalled, waiting for him to drop the other shoe.

"I was just thinking I'd prefer you to be, you know, a little more affectionate and a lot less modest."

There was a three-second delay before she pushed out of his lap and stood.

Any further response was foreclosed by a knock on the door.

"Come in!" Ian called, his voice betraying zero concern about her reaction or his erection.

Ivan Jacobsen entered the room, carrying two small boxes under his arm. He greeted them with a cheerful: "Good morning!"

"Hey Ivan," Ian smiled.

"G-good morning, sir," Tiffany stuttered, suddenly twice as nervous. Her smile burgeoned desperately as she fixed her other shoulder strap. "Did you... did you find your paper and coffee?"

Jacobsen strode toward them and handed her the larger of his two boxes, saying: "These are for you, and yes, I did. Thank you."

She accepted the colored shoebox in both hands.

"Was it okay?" she asked, watching as Ivan set the smaller box onto the coffee table. It was his wet-wipes.

"It was fine, Tiffany. Why are you so anxious this morning?"

She looked down, not wanting to answer. Her shoulders tightened. She slowly lifted the lid of the shoebox. Tissue concealed the contents until she peeled away the tape.

"Oh... sir!" she breathed.

Inside were two very tall, very minimalistic sandals; glossy nude in color with four-inch stiletto heels. There was no platform under the toe. There was one tiny strap across the foot and another above the ankle.

She lifted the first one gingerly.

"Awesome," Ian said. "Those will look way better than what you have on."

"They're so tall," she whispered.

"Do you like them?" Jacobsen asked.

"Well... Yes sir, they're beautiful but... you didn't have to—"

"My pleasure. This was the only pair in your size I found locally, but don't worry, I have other, more interesting styles on the way."

"What?" she asked, looking up.

"Other shoes. It's a predilection of mine. Those things you wore yesterday... and... my goodness, today's even moreso, are tragic. Feet like yours are meant to be celebrated. Now let me help you put them on."

Ian cut-in with an enthusiastic, "Absolutely," pulling Tiffany backward into his lap. She landed with a squeal, sprawled across him.

Jacobsen sank to one knee at her feet and quickly slipped off her low pumps. Within seconds his wet-wipes were at work, busily scouring her petite insteps and toes.

She wriggled and squealed with ticklishness. Ian made matters worse by digging his fingers into her ribs. She tucked her elbows and twisted in his lap, struggling to defend herself from this four-handed attack. Her skirt began to invert itself, leaving her legs bare to the hip. Her white teeth gleamed in a rictus smile as laughter poured from her.

Mitchell's fingers were soon under her silk top, lifting it higher as she squirmed. First her ribs showed and then the under-curve of both breasts.

"Doctor Mitchell!" she squealed, squirming haphazardly. "Stop!"

"Stop what?"

"Tickling! Please! YAA-ah!"

Her abdomen heaved with giggles. She felt like a hammock strung between two men.

Jacobsen kept scrubbing her narrow feet long after they were clean. From his vantage point he could see her panties clearly and made sure to pull her feet toward him so that her skirt rode ever higher. Ian, meanwhile, was very much enjoying his free access to her torso. He kept tickling her but managed to brush, squeeze and paw her puffy young breasts at random intervals, keeping her guessing where his fingers might land.

Tiffany felt like she was about to pee. Her dark blue panties were on full display and very snug to the crease of her shaved labia. She couldn't keep her eyes open and was laughing herself into oxygen deficiency. Her elbows worked hard to defend her sides from Mitchell's fingers, but it was impossible. Soon tears wet her cheeks.

Finally they stopped. Ian draped his arms around her in a loose hug while Jacobsen attached the new shoes to her feet.

She panted, trying to catch her breath. Now she knew she was drunk, and not solely from the whisky.

"There we are!" Jacobsen announced when her new shoes were buckled. "Give us a nice little walk-around so we can see them on you."

They both helped her to her feet. At first she swayed unsteadily. Jacobsen caught her elbow.

"Oh my..." she exclaimed, "they're crazy steep!"

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"I'm... I'm not sure. Maybe. Just don't let go of me yet!"

She took two steps. Jacobsen remained alongside her, walking backward while staring at her feet. He was smiling.

Her silk top fell back into place, hiding her chest at last.

Soon Jacobsen released her, setting her free to slowly strut around the room unaided. She was vastly leggy.

"God," she swore as she teetered to Mitchell's desk and turned around. "I'm so tall!"

Busy acclimating to the extreme flexion of her ankles, she failed to notice Doctors Grisholm and Adams stroll through the open door.

It was eight o'clock.

SCENE FOURTEEN

"Okay," Ian announced. "Time for our staff meeting; everyone grab a seat."

The four doctors arranged themselves without fuss into the leather furniture, leaving Tiffany with nowhere to sit.

Ian beckoned her to his lap again, this time patting his right knee.

Tiffany scanned the other doctors, realizing she was about to become a pawn in Mitchell's display of rank. She saw how confident he looked; so sure that she would obey.

She rationalized this tipsily, presuming that since he'd been the one to hire her, he was the only one who could fire her. Somehow that made staying in his good graces her job. She tiptoed to the foot of his chair and carefully lowered her bottom onto his thigh, facing the other men.

She crossed her legs and set her hands on her lap to preserve some semblance of ladylike decorum. Or at least that was her intent; the fact that her bare butt was riding her boss' leg did undercut this effort. She tried ignoring the brevity of her skirt and started bobbing her topmost shin instead, nodding one tall sandal toward the other three doctors.

Ian pulled an agenda from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. Then he hooked his right hand around the small of Tiffany's waist and announced: "Our principal business today is to ratify Tiffany's rules."

Her heartbeat stumbled and then caught-up. All the flirting and tickling had caused her to forget that this meeting was about her. She knotted her fingers together in her lap, trying to provide her stress an exit.

"Firstly;" Ian began. "As we previously discussed, each of you will be responsible for Tiffany's training one day per week. Doctor Grisholm will take Tuesdays, Jacobsen Thursdays and Adams Fridays. Since there are only four of us, I'll take the other two: Mondays and Wednesdays. Agreed?"

Heads nodded around the room. Tiffany looked at each of them in turn.

"When it's your day," he continued, "all disciplinary actions will revert to you. That means if it's NOT your day and you see Tiffany arriving late or making some other mistake, you don't immediately discipline her right then. You simply report it to the partner in charge, and he'll remediate her whenever and however he sees fit. That's to avoid the waterfall effect of punishment delays, which would otherwise be unfair to Tiffany. Understood?"

There were nods around the half-circle again.

She became unsteady. Her torso tipped toward Ian's shoulder and she put a hand down to catch herself, quite by accident landing her fingers across his penis.

He grunted. She jerked upright, removing her hand as fast as she could.

He shook his paper agenda once and continued, with slightly more inflection.

"The next item concerns Tiffany's attire. During patient visits, she must be allowed to wear shoes... and at least one item of clothing that could be considered business-appropriate. During all other times her attire shall be subject to our collective discretion. The only caveat is that it should complement her feminine charms, so as to enliven the mood around here. Are we all still in agreement on that?"

More nods.

"Wait! Hh-Ha-hold on," Tiffany stammered, at last finding her voice. "That's a joke, right? You guys aren't gonna just dress me however you want... right?"

"We'll help you through it," Ian said soothingly. "It won't be complicated."

"But, I... I at least need a vote or a... a... whatchamacallit. I can't just let—"

"A veto?" Grisholm suggested.

"Yeah! A veto."

"Don't worry so much," Ian cut them both off. "Clothes are just an artifice. Plus, you get to keep anything we bring-in, so it's a win-win. The important stuff is next."

Her carotid arteries throbbed against the choker. These rules seemed crazy, all about punishments and skimpy clothes, but alcohol delayed her judgment.

Ian took her left hand and casually relocated it onto his erection. She gave him a shocked look but he just smiled as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He held her hand there and patted it, making clear she was to leave it.

She clenched her teeth and twisted slightly, trying to make her new pose look uncontrived. She was sure the other doctors all noticed.

'Jesus,' she realized. 'He actually wants them to see.'

She tried not to dwell on the foreign heartbeat pulsing under her palm, but it was no use. It became her sole focus.

"While we are on the subject of clothes," Ian continued with new happiness. "I'd like to make one preemptive suggestion, which is that we should outlaw bras. Do you all agree?"

Smiles and affirmations came from the other three doctors.

"Good. That's settled then, Tiff'. You can leave you bras at home from now on, just like today."

"But—"

"The next point," he continued briskly, "is vital. Team cohesion is what sets us apart, so... being the only girl Tiffany is not allowed to play favorites. She must treat each partner with equal affection and deference."

"Right," Grisholm concurred softly. Adams and Jacobsen merely nodded.

Tiffany's mind was still processing the no-bra rule and the erection in her hand.

"For example," Ian continued, "Give me a quick kiss."

"What?" she startled, spinning her face toward his.

"A kiss," he reiterated, laying his agenda across the arm of his chair. "You know, like a greeting kiss; a token of affection."