Telegraphic Titillation

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Sometimes it seems that I attract a certain ilk of people toward me. We all telegraph messages — both overtly and unconsciously — to the world and some people not only have the capacity to receive those messages, but are drawn toward them.

When I hired Ms. Gale, I was not consciously aware of anything special about her. She had just graduated from college, was in need of some sort of job — anything really — and she pranced into my office, no appointment, after hearing from a friend that I might be a good employer.

She was my first employee. I always strived to have a purely professional relationship with her. But she was looking for more than a boss. She wanted meaning, a mentor, a man. Don’t get me wrong, when I met her, she was dating someone. And she has since begun dating and broken up with a half-dozen guys. But they all were about half my age and she always turned to me for both life advice and love advice. Early on I told her, “You know, age doesn’t necessarily lead to wisdom.” She said, “Only a wise person would say that.”

She appeals to my vanity and that’s dangerous.

Perhaps because I have remained distant and also because I’ve always been kind, she is loyal to a tee.

And so, recently, with the onset of work-from-home orders, she has insisted on coming into the office to do the necessary work that is needed.

That is also dangerous because there’s only the two of us in the office and we are guaranteed to be left alone since no clients would be popping in unexpectedly.

Let me be clear, before you, dear reader, get any lurid ideas — I am completely faithful to my Lo. I am dedicated to her. Obviously. If you don’t know that by now, then, well, go back and do your homework.

The other day, a couple of weeks ago, I noticed that Ms. Gale’s blouse was unbuttoned a little too far for work, revealing her cleavage and a bit of her lacey bra. But that is not what piqued my interest. I was curious because there seemed to be large red splotches on her otherwise fair-skinned chest.

I didn’t pay it much mind, figuring that maybe I should turn up the AC.

A couple of days later I noticed it again. This time the red rash ran up to her neck. But later in the day the marks had disappeared.


Then, last week, she came into my office to show me a document she had drafted.

She bent over my desk and her large breasts were dangling down dancing freely in front of me. I looked at the document and then back up at her and I saw the red splotches appearing before my eyes.

“Ms. Gale,” I said authoritatively.

She stood up immediately and bit her lip a little. Her knees were pressed together.

“Yes,” she squealed.

“Are you allergic to something in the office?”


“Is there something in the office causing a skin rash for you?”

She looked confused. “Why do you say that?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to draw attention to this, but I’ve noticed on a number of occasions that you seem to have some sort of. . .” I moved my hand to my neck and chest to indicate what I was talking about.

She looked down and saw the scarlet indicator of which I spoke.

“Can you excuse me, Mr. H., for one sec.? I really have to use the bathroom.”

I felt terrible. I embarrassed her. I should never have mentioned it! Damn.

A few moments later she returned.

She sat at her desk. I went to her and said, “I’m sorry for that, Ms. Gale. I was out of line. I was just concerned that maybe there is an environmental allergen that we could remove.”

“That’s ok, Mr. H.,” she said. “I appreciate your concern. No. I’m not allergic to anything.”

I wanted to let the question drop. But I continued. Was I being a good boss or a naughty old man?

“Is it too hot in here for you?”

“No, Mr. H.”

“OK. Well, if there is anything that you. . .”

She didn’t let me finish my sentence. She broke into tears at her desk.

Oh, I thought, the red splotches have to do with her emotions.

Unfortunately, as I’ve mentioned before, I suffer terribly from dacryphilia — the arousal caused by crying; specifically a lovely younger woman’s tears.

What was I to do?

“Ms. Gale. I’m. . .”

She looked up at me, her mascara running, crimson splotches all over her chest and neck.

“It’s not you, Mr. H.,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

She was quiet for a while. Her hands tightly gripped the arms of the task chair she was in. She bit down on her lip for a moment and almost lifted herself up out of the chair.

“Ms. Gale?”
“Mr. H. I’m sorry because I’ve been inappropriate. I’ve violated your trust.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is so embarrassing,” she said. “You know, because of COVID-19, I haven’t been able to date anyone.”

“You and the rest of the single world,” I added, supportively.

“But I’ve been on a few dating aps and. . .”

She trailed off for a bit, collecting her thoughts.

“And, I met someone. Someone I really like. But we haven’t been able to meet in person. It’s terrible.”

Again, another long pause.

“It doesn’t sound so bad,” I said. “This pandemic will eventually be over.”

“That’s not it, Mr. H.”

“What? You can tell me anything.” I don’t know if I meant that. I’m not sure that I wanted to hear what she had to say. But it seemed like the right thing to say at the moment.

“I know, Mr. H. You’re so good to me. But I think you’re going to fire me.”

“Why?” I was now very worried that she had violated confidentiality or something serious.

“Well, in order to feel more connected with this guy. In order to gratify his, my, our sexual needs.” There were a lot of pauses. “He bought me a toy.”

“A toy?”

“A sex toy.”

“I’m not sure I follow. What does that have to do with. . .”

“It’s called a Lush. It is operated remotely.”


“And, well, I have it in now. I’ve had it in for the past two weeks at work. He turns it on at random and, well, it causes me to climax, like really climax. I mean, like a huge fucking orgasm.”

“I get it,” I said. “So, it’s in you right now?”



She just nodded.

“And that accounts for the rash on your chest.”

She nodded, yes, again. She was too embarrassed to answer with words.

“I see. That is serious.”

“I’ll pack up my things. I’m so sorry again.”

“There is no need for that, Ms. Gale,” I said, surprising myself.


“Please, just don’t let it happen again and you and I, well, we’ll pretend like this unfortunate circumstance never transpired. Ok?”

“Are you sure, Mr. H.?”

“Would you rather be fired?”

“No no no,” she said. “It will never happen again.”

“I expect not. This is a place of business, not a personal care facility.”

“Yes, Mr. H.”

“If I catch you doing that again, you’ll leave me no choice.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll have to spank you,” I said with a little wink, letting her know that I was just joking and I actually was not that cross with her.

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Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail:

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