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One of Lo’s favorite films is Secretary. She had seen it the first time, as she says, when she was far too young to appreciate it — or understand its subtle psychological complexities. But, years later, with me, after engaging in her own deep, dark psychological play-house, we watched it together and it all made sense — like a blurry picture suddenly coming into sharp focus.

Well, luckily for my little masochist, I happen to have an office of my own where she and I can live out her sadomasochistic seduction scenes. As it happens, my office is on the third floor of a busy city square. It looks out over the throngs of people coming this way and going that, waiting for the bus, entering and exiting the train, hopping into taxis, getting food, and generally bustling and bounding all about. Slightly above the orchestra of this stage with its many players is a large, eight-story office building across from my office. Looking out my window, I can see not only the busy street-scape, but also the office workers on the second and third floors of the tower.

On the second floor, I suppose it is some sort of investment company (I’ve never taken the time to investigate this) because the diligent employees sit in rows before large computer screens all day and on Fridays they come out on the balcony at lunch time — every Friday — to make a small barbeque on a hibachi grill. This intimate and regular ritual of theirs — and the fuss that they make over it — leads me to suspect that they don’t get out too often.

On the third floor, the office life is not nearly so interesting. I never see anyone milling about; just dark shadows occasionally passing by the small windows. From my office, I don’t have a view into the fourth floor windows, though, no doubt, they can spy upon me if they so choose.

Hopefully this sets the scene for what is about to play out:

One Friday afternoon as I was daydreaming in front of my computer — looking out the window, watching the people below, appreciatively taking in the preparations being made for the weekly barbeque and almost growing jealous of the possibility of camaraderie among office-mates, my phone beeped with a text. It was Lo. It read: “Got out of work early. Want you. Can I stop by your office?” Along with the text was a picture of her naked snatch. Another text came on the heels of the first: “I’ve been a bad girl.”

I texted back, “Are you prepared to be punished?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“When will you be here?”

“10 minutes.”

I eagerly anticipated her arrival.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock on my door and the little metal slot for the mail swung open and I could see Lo’s beautiful brown eyes peeking into my office, hoping to catch a glimpse of me engaged in a naughty indiscretion.

“Come in, it’s open,” I called out from my room as I swiveled in my leather executive chair. In popped a lovely vision — Lo dressed in a short black skirt and a white blouse. She walked through the reception room to my office. She stood awkwardly for a moment, awaiting a command.

“Sit.”

She sat.

“What have you done?”

“I was bad.”

“I know that. What have you done. . . exactly?”

“I couldn’t wait, Daddy. I used the storage room at work and, and I. . .” She trailed off as she slowly lifted the hem of her skirt to reveal her pantyless pussy to me. “Why don’t I show you, instead?” She put her fingers between the glistening lips and gently slid them back and forth as she lifted her legs up and placed her bare feet on the edge of the chair.

“Lo,” I said in my stern voice. “This is an office, a place of business, a place where I receive clients and mail and occasionally colleagues walk in.”

“I know, Daddy. I’m so bad.”

“Did you lock the door?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Get up.”

She got up.

“Bend over.”

She bent over, resting her hands on the chair and exposing to me her bare bottom.

WHACK! One. WHACK! Two. WHACK! Three. I spanked her bottom and each slap of my hand on her flesh was like the sound of lighting striking and it reverberated through the office. I wondered if people in the hall or my neighbor in the office next door — a therapist, no less — could hear. I didn’t care and neither did Lo. In fact, I think she rather liked it.

“Owe, Daddy!” she said, rubbing her bum.

I pulled the skirt down again. “Sit down,” I said, sternly. She sat. “Now Lo, I have to deliver this letter to the post office. It is very important that it go out today.”

“But Daddy,” she began to say. I kept talking over her pouting.

“I have to mail this out now. You stay here and be a good girl. Can you do that?”

She nodded a meek Yes.

“If anyone comes by looking for me, you tell them you’re my secretary and that I will return presently.”

She nodded again.

I left with the letter. The post office is very close by and it took me no longer than ten minutes to post it. When I returned, I could already hear Lo moaning from down the hall. I opened the mail slot and looked in. There she was in the reception room on my couch, lying on her back, legs spread, skirt hiked up over her torso, her hands frantically feeling between her legs. I went to open the door, but it was locked. I pulled out my keys and unlocked it and barged in.

“Lo!” I said, quick to shut the door behind me!

“Wait.”

I expected her to jump to attention, but instead she told me to wait. To wait?

And then there it was — she came, squirting on the leather of my couch.

I walked to the utility closet and pulled out paper towels. “Clean it up,” I commanded. Abashed, she obeyed.

“Lo, you were a very, very bad girl.”

“I know, Daddy. I’m horrid. But I couldn’t wait for you.”

I raised my finger to show that I wasn’t interested in an explanation.

“I have some more work to do. I have to write an e-mail. You sit here and await your punishment.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“And for God’s sake, don’t masturbate!”

[Excerpt from “Secret Secretary,” from the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]

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Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail: downloladown@gmail.com

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