The following is a new EMC story. The usual disclaimers apply.
For all I know, stuff like this happens all the time.
Synopsis: Office worker Linda Coleman finds she has a leg up in dealing with her boss.
Loving Linda’s Legs
I. Stepping In
“Mr. Jacobs wants you in his office right away, Linda,” Cecily Bichak, the boss’s secretary, called out as Linda Coleman pushed her way in through the glass doors.
Great, thought Linda. From the Bitch-Hag’s tone, I’m in trouble.
She hung up her jacket and went in to see Mr. Jacobs. He didn’t even look up from the papers on his desk, just gestured her to a seat in front of him.
“What did you want, sir?” she asked carefully, studying him. He wasn’t bad-looking, she thought, in a middle-aged kind of way; he still had all his hair, and the gray at his temples looked sort of distinguished. So maybe he was a little heavy-but not too bad.
Now he did look up. “Miss Coleman,” he said, “there’ve been complaints about the way you dress. Some of the other employees seem to feel you’re too provocative in your attire. Unprofessional.”
Linda took inventory. Tight blouse, showing off her high bosom to good advantage; short skirt; sheer hose; high heels. Nothing wrong that she could see. She began idly swinging her right leg, which was crossed over the left. “I don’t understand, sir,” she said. “No one’s said anything to me.”
“Well, they’ve come to me,” Mr. Jacobs said. “They’ve complained about,” his breathing seemed to quicken, “legs, I mean your clothes being, swinging,” he gulped, “in-in-inapprohhhpriate.”
Linda looked at him, fascinated. Her boss was sweating, and his eyes were following the gentle movement of her leg without his seeming to be aware of it. He seemed to having a hard time focusing on what he wanted to say instead of on her leg. Mischievously, she sped up the swing a little.
“What do you suggest I do, Mr. Jacobs?” she asked, smiling.
“Swing your leg,” he gasped. “I-I mean, it couldn’t hurt to h-high heels, wear more m-m-modest clothing.” He was breathing raggedly now, gripping the edges of his desk tightly.
“I suppose not,” she answered. “But do you really think I need to?” She extended her right foot, reaching across the empty space under the central shelf of her boss’s desk until she made contact with his own trousered leg. He gasped.
“M-Miss Coleman,” he stammered, “p-please. This . . . isn’t . . . ap-ap-ap—!”
“Appropriate?” she suggested, sliding her foot up his leg, feeling him shudder at the sensation.
“Ye-e-eahhhh,” he groaned as she found her target and began gently massaging his groin.
Linda stopped for a moment and looked across the desk. Wow, she thought. Mr. Jacobs was now sitting bolt upright, teeth gritted. His eyes were actually crossing and uncrossing as she watched.
“Mr. Jacobs?”
“Legs,” he responded as if by reflex. He had a silly look on his face, as if he were a cartoon character who had been hit on the head and was now listening only to the circling tweety-birds.
She resumed her kneading of his groin, and very soon, he came, loudly. Fortunately, the office was soundproofed and the intercom switched off.
Linda knew an opportunity when she saw one. Obviously, her boss was a leg man big time. She had him practically hypnotized. Even after coming, he still seemed to be half out of it, a goofy smile on his face.
She pulled back her foot, and addressed the dazed, weakly smiling executive. “Mr. Jacobs, sir, can you hear me?”
“Yes . . . of course,” he mumbled.
She re-crossed her legs and began the swinging motion again. As she’d hoped, Jacobs’ eyes once more followed helplessly along.
“Mr. Jacobs, you don’t really think I need to dress more modestly, do you?” she asked. “In fact, you wish I’d dress even sexier, to show off my legs and feet, isn’t that right?”
“Y-yeah,” he whimpered. “Dress even sexier. Show off . . . your legs an’ feet. Please . . . !” He was begging.
Linda decided she’d done enough for now. She’d found out just how vulnerable Mr. Jacobs was, and she could take advantage of it later as opportunities came up.
Jacobs’ eyes were clearing, and he seemed to be relaxing; he’d slumped in his seat, and was no longer grasping rigidly at his desk. But he was obviously still in a pliable mood. She spoke to him again.
“Mr. Jacobs, I’m happy we could settle this issue so easily. But I’m thinking, maybe we could keep what happened in this meeting just between us? Our little secret?”
“Our little secret,” he agreed. By now he was rational enough to realize what would happen if anyone did find out. She’d jacked him off with her foot, for God’s sake, and he’d let her do it! Then he thought again of those glorious, long, high-heeled legs, and sighed, and stopped worrying. He was smiling broadly as she left the office and closed the door behind her.
II. The Next Step
Linda’s next meeting with her boss came after she’d gotten a whole lot of bills all at once, several demanding immediate payment and threatening service cutoffs or legal action if she didn’t send money immediately. It was time, she decided, for a raise.
Since discovering Jacobs’ weakness, she had made some adjustments in her wardrobe. She was going with even shorter skirts, more fishnet stockings, some garters, sky-high heels. They made her feel super sexy, and it turned her on to think how they affected guys. Especially, she was sure, her boss. She’d also taken to using more perfume, applied especially to her legs.
She’d also spent some time on the Web researching fetishes. It was amazing, the fixations some men had, and the power it could give anyone who knew their private obsessions. Mr. Jacobs was far from unique. Her research had given her a few ideas on how to push his buttons even harder.
An hour after she reached the office she figured she’d put in enough time. Now to really go to work!
She walked over to Mr. Jacobs’ office, past the Bitch-Hag’s hostile glare, and went in. As she closed the door behind her, Jacobs looked up.
“Yes?” he said in a questioning voice. “Is there something I can do for you, Miss Coleman?”
She sat down, crossed her legs, and began flexing the foot touching the floor. Her legs moved rhythmically, the top one swinging gently. The bracelet around that ankle glittered, and the tiny bangles attached to it jiggled, making a tinkling sound.
Mr. Jacobs gasped. His eyes locked onto that ankle and watched as it swung up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
“Up and down,” he mumbled, unaware he was doing it. “Up . . . and down. Up . . . and down.” He kept on, like a broken record.
“Mr. Jacobs?” Linda asked after a minute. “Are you all right?” She knew the answer, and liked it.
“Y-yes,” he stuttered. “I’m, I’m, legs, up and down, fine. Legs. Up and down.”
“You seem distracted, sir,” she said. “I read recently about a relaxation technique that might help. Do you want me to show you?”
“Okay,” he agreed, eyes still following the motion of her leg. “Couldn’t, legs, hurt.”
“Just keep looking where you’re looking already and repeat these words: Legs, ankles, high heels. Legs, ankles, high heels. Repeat the words, sir, and concentrate on them.”
“Legs, ankles, high heels,” her boss repeated mechanically. “Legs, ankles, high heels.” His eyes looked glazed now; his breathing fell into the rhythm of his words, and he put everything he had behind repeating Linda’s mantra. “Legs . . ankles . . . high HEELS. Legs . . . ankles . . . high HEELS. Legs . . . ankles . . . high HEELS.” There was room for no other words, no other thoughts, in his mind.
“There, now,” Linda soothed. “Don’t you feel better already?”
“Yes. Much better,” Jacobs replied. “Legs, ankles, high HEELS.” He continued to stare and chant, breathing shallowly. By now, he was leaning forward half over his desktop, hands gripping its sides with desperate force.
Linda smiled. The stuff she’d found on-line had really worked! For all practical purposes, her boss was now her slave. His neurotic obsession with women’s legs had made him utterly defenseless against a seduction by suggestion carefully planned around it.
She thrust her braceleted leg up onto his desk, leaning back in her chair and flexing that foot. Her black high-heeled pump popped off at the heel, dangling and swaying. As she’d expected, Mr. Jacobs followed the motion like a good little robot. Except that robots don’t drool, and Linda was delighted to see that Mr. Jacobs was, now, a thin line of saliva starting from one corner of his mouth and running slowly, slowly, down his chin.
Now to business.
Fifteen minutes later, Linda left the office, whistling. She’d gotten the raise she wanted, seventy-five a week. It was the most she thought she could get away with right now without drawing too much attention from Mr. J’s own bosses, who might not be as, ahem, understanding as he was. On her way back to her own cubicle, she flashed a mocking look at Cecily Bichak. The old battle-ax thought she was the boss’s right hand. Well, Linda knew where his real right hand was right now: working with his left to put on a fresh pair of pants.
III. Stepping Up
Months passed. After another little chat with Mr. Jacobs, Linda got another raise, another fifty bucks a week. A dull resentment had begun to color her co-workers’ dealings with her, however, and finally Linda decided she’d had enough. It was time she went for a promotion, one which would give her a private office so she wouldn’t have to deal so much with people envious of her success.
A week before Christmas, Linda arranged to take some papers in to her boss. She’d dressed specifically for what she had in mind, in a tight extra-short miniskirt, sheer stockings and higher-than-usual heels.
As the office door closed behind her, Linda addressed Jacobs: “Here are those reports you wanted, sir.”
“Thank you, Linda,” he responded.
Suddenly, he mimed startlement and exclaimed, “Oh! Oh, sir, I’ve lost my contact lens!” She bent down as if to look for the nonexistent visual aid, carefully bending from the waist and keeping her legs straight and spread apart.
A moment later, she glanced upward and smirked. Sure enough, Me. Jacobs was bending over his desk, looking not at the floor but at her legs. She could hear his breathing change, going ragged. Perfect.
“Oh, sir,” she cooed, “won’t you please help me? I’m afraid to move. I might step on my contact! Maybe if you look with me, we can find it faster.”
“O-of c-course,” Jacobs stammered. He came out from behind the desk and got down on hands and knees to help search. Then, just as Linda had planned, he looked at her legs again, close up, and forgot all about everything else.
He crawled closer, whispering the mantra she’d taught him: “Legs, ankles, high HEELS. Legs, ankles, high HEELS. Legs, ankles, high HEELS.”
Linda extended her right foot, flexing it. “Kiss my toe, sir,” she directed him. Gasping, he did it. A wave of pleasure shot through the executive, bringing his member erect, as he obeyed his mistress’s-no, wait, his subordinate’s-command.
“Kiss it again, Mr. Jacobs, sir. As hard as you can, please, sir.”
He did, and pleasure jolted through him again, stronger this time. He forgot everything for a moment as he came explosively. Afterwards, he lay there for a moment, butt in the air, arms out, head on the carpet in front of Linda’s glorious foot.
“Sir, are you all right?” Linda asked in a “worried” voice.
“Dlahhh,” came from his mouth; it was hard to say anything understandable with his brain a puddle of ooze and his tongue lolling on the carpet.
“Sir, please, get up,” Linda said after relishing her power over him for a minute or so. “I found it! It fell onto your desktop, sir.”
Linda’s words brought the dazed executive at least partway back to reality, and he did stand up, on shaky legs. But he still had the unfocused, goofy look Linda had learned meant he was open to her suggestions. Only half aware of what he was doing, he sat back down in his chair. Linda laughed softly; he had almost missed the seat and fallen.
Then she got down to the real purpose of the meeting.
“Sir,” she said, “I really think I could do more for you as a manager. I know I’m young—” she dimpled at him, “—but I’m sure I can handle the responsibility. Won’t you give me a chance, please, Mr. Jacobs, sir? Please?”
Just to hammer home her words, she leaned over, letting her right knee rest on his desk in front of him. She knew she’d won when she saw his eyes start crossing and uncrossing as they fixed on her bent knee, and a small froth of drool at the corner of his mouth.
After she’d coaxed him through the necessary preliminary paperwork, she got ready to leave. She’d have to make sure he followed through, of course, but she had no doubt he would. He found it very hard these days to say no to her.
IV. Stepping Out
The day her promotion came through, Linda felt like partying. And she knew just how to do it.
Walking right by the Bitch-Hag’s desk, ignoring the senior secretary’s glower, Linda went into Mr. Jacobs’ office and closed the door carefully behind her. Her boss was working, focused on the screen of his computer, when she came in.
“Mr. Jacobs, sir?” she drew his attention.
“Yes, Lin-I mean, Miss Coleman?”
“Sir, my promotion came through today, and I was wondering if you’d like to go out to dinner with me to celebrate? You were so helpful in getting it for me.” She smiled.
“Well, I don’t know,” Jacobs “I, um, I really shouldn’t. It, ah, after I helped you get promoted, people might get the wrong idea.”
Linda had expected that. She’d been prepared. Casually, she bent over and began massaging her left leg, just above the ankle. The dress she was wearing bared the whole well-developed limb. “What do you mean, sir?” she asked coyly.
“I, ah, I mean, er, legs,” he responded, flushed. “I . . . um. What was I saying? Well, it couldn’t have been important.” His eyes stayed on her.
Still rubbing her leg, up and down, up and down, she spoke: “Ooh, this feels so good, sir. The motion, the rubbing, up and down, up and down, ooooooh. . . .”
“Up and down,” Jacobs gasped. “Up . . . and down. Motion. R-rubbing.” Behind his desk, his hand stole to his pants, beginning a similar rhythmic motion as he watched her. A couple of minutes later, he shuddered and gasped, and Linda knew he was ready.
“Sir,” she addressed him, “you didn’t answer my question. Do you want to go out with me tonight?” Not “will you,” but “do you want to,” of course, and Linda already knew the answer.
“Oh, yes, Miss Coleman,” Jacobs sighed. “Please.”
“Linda,” she answered. “If we’re going to be seeing each other socially, sir, you can call me Linda.”
“In that case . . . Linda,” Jacobs responded, smiling fondly, “please call me Michael.” He paused, some last shred of propriety asserting itself. “When we’re alone, of course, or outside of the office. Is seven o’clock okay?”
“That would be just fine . . . Michael.”
The dinner was great, a three-course meal at one of the city’s fanciest restaurants, a place where Linda couldn’t have afforded to eat on her own even with her new salary. A gal could get used to this, she thought, a plan already forming in her mind. She knew they were drawing stares, with Jacobs all dressed up and her in a peasant blouse, tight, form-fitting pants and spike heels. The waiter didn’t say anything, though; Linda suspected it wasn’t the first time he’d seen such a mismatched couple, and he wasn’t being paid to make an issue of it.
She kept Jacobs off-balance all through the meal by sneaking her foot over every so often, beneath the table, and massaging his crotch. Every time it looked as if their conversation might take a turn she didn’t want, over would come the foot, and Michael would get a rub which would rub out whatever he’d been thinking. She was careful not to take him all the way to climax, right there in a posh eatery with people all around, but she made sure the only thoughts he was permitted to hold onto were those which worked to her advantage.
When he drove her home, she let him kiss her as they stood in the doorway of her apartment building. He thought it was his own idea.
V. The Final Step
Linda’s date with her boss had sparked a whole new idea in her head. Jacobs was a successful, upwardly-mobile corporate executive, with a six-figure income which might reach seven figures someday. She, on the other hand, despite her recent rise in the world, was still a glorified flunky. And her figure, however captivating Mr. Jacobs found it now, wouldn’t last forever.
So why not lock in her advantage? Marry the guy?
Linda would have liked a more studly husband, but realistically, most guys like that either didn’t have much money, or were gay, or were show-business types surrounded by women more glamorous than she’d ever be. Michael Jacobs wasn’t that bad-looking, and when you factored in the money, well . . . she wasn’t likely to get a better deal. And besides, if she felt she needed a good-looking lover now and then, she was certain she could arrange it. Michael didn’t have to know—and if he found out, she could simply swing her legs until he was helpless and order him to forget.
The trick would be to get him to propose, and to think he’d done it on his own initiative. As the cliché went, however, that could be arranged.
Her opportunity came in April. Once again, she got Jacobs alone in his office, supposedly to discuss a couple of minor glitches in the monthly sales summary. After going through that material, she struck.
“Oh, Michael,” she cooed. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Something personal.” She pushed back her chair, leaned back and began swinging her right leg over her left knee. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Yes, Linda?” Michael answered. “What did you want . . . to talk . . . about . . .?” His voice trailed off as he focused on her swinging leg.
“We’ve been seeing so much of each other, Michael,” Linda said. “I think we’re perfect together. Don’t you agree?’
“Perfect together,” Jacobs echoed. Yes, he was ready. Her legs controlled his head. Both heads, she thought, noticing the bulge which had appeared in his pants.
“So I was thinking, Michael honey,” she went on, “I was thinking, we should make it official. Get married.”
“Married?” It came out in a squeak. Jacobs half stood up, still leaning forward to watch her swinging leg. “I-I’m not sure, it’s so legs, soon. Swinging. Are you, legs, swinging, gnnhhh, sure?”
Her answer was physical. Leaning farther back, she brought both fishnetted legs up to swing above his desktop in a scissoring motion. Michael’s eyes crossed, then rolled outward, then crossed, trying to follow the motion, disorienting him, just as she’d planned. He gripped his desk for balance and kept watching, speechless. Finally she stopped, pointed to her legs and ordered him: “Kiss them, Michael. Start at the feet and kiss them all the way up.”
Feverishly, he did as she’d asked, head bobbing from one foot to the other and then working up the legs, first one, then the other. Linda felt herself getting more and more aroused as her mindless sex puppet of a boss worked away. Finally he reached her mound.
“Aaauuhhh!” Linda cried as Michael’s lips hit her sweet spot. “Yes! Oh, God, Michael, YES! Don’t stop!” Her thighs clamped hard around his head. Her high-heeled feet dug into his back, pulling him forward and tearing his jacket.
Finally he did stop, though; he’d passed out from pleasure and lack of oxygen. Linda was barely conscious herself by then. Yes, she thought woozily, this might work out after all.
When Jacobs revived, he’d begged her to be his wife. She hadn’t even had to suggest it.
The wedding in June was a beautiful affair, the groom in tuxedo, the bride in a stunning white wedding dress whose gauzy skirt showed off her gorgeous legs. The new Linda Jacobs, née Linda Coleman, was radiantly happy: her future was assured. Her new husband was ecstatic. He looked forward to a long future, loving Linda’s legs.