The bitch in me

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All rights are reserved by the author.

Original copyright © 2017, by Laetitia Guivarché.

Dear readers,

Thank you for purchasing this book.

The bitch in me is an short erotic novel. It's not a thriller, nor is it a classic love story. It is a frivolous short story full of lust, passion, drama and sin.

In this story, I evoke my fictional existence as a secretary. Although I'm more than overqualified for this job, I remain loyal and devoted to my boss because we have a very special relationship.

But does he see it that way?

Chapter 1

Actually, I'm not so sure you have to believe me. I am a strong, self-confident woman. One that won't be humiliated. Yes, I would even call myself an emanze in some ways. As a feminist. Intelligent, strong, proud and beautiful.

I'm actually overqualified for my job as a secretary. I have studied, completed various additional training courses, I am constantly improving my skills, I could have any other higher-quality job than this one.

Wouldn't that be another secret side of me? The one who thoroughly enjoys making my boss happy. The side that feels endlessly good to be desired. Yes, I would have been able to use my abilities and now I mean my mental, emotional and social abilities, I would have been able to make a career and earn a lot of money with them long ago. Wouldn't that be my unbridled lust.

My lust for the pleasure that has constantly come between me in all the other jobs. I can finally live them out here. Money means nothing to me. Lust means everything to me.

My boss is a good boss. He respects and respects me. Only, so that they don't misunderstand me, I wouldn't allow it if he saw me as an object only, not also as a woman, as a human being and as an individual. But to be honest, sometimes I enjoy being exactly that. to be an object. A coveted piece, a piece of shag. He knows that, that's why he sometimes treats me so... so rough. So arrogant. So humiliating. And I thank him for that.

My boss looks sensational. A very attractive man, 41, to be precise. He is a real fitness freak, well-trained, muscular. His brown hair has a grey tail, his eyes are pungent blue. At 188 cm it is also relatively large. But his cock is the real piece of cream on him.

It's big. Mostly very plump and greedy. Often I am horny already in the morning when I stand in front of the wardrobe and think about what I should wear. Trousers are out of the question, my boss immediately made that clear. He likes skirts. And he likes pantyhose, which I already noticed during the job interview, how he looked at me, how his gaze crawled under my black skirt, and later also his hand.

I had an opaque pantyhose with the stripes on. "Good choice, Mrs. Guivarché,"he said, and I don't know if he meant my pantyhose or my decision for this job. And that I won't regret it, that's what he said. And something else important:"From now on, always something sharp underneath." "Of course, boss,"I smiled.

In the beginning it was an unusual feeling to simply leave the panties off or to wear stingtangas. It has often tingling and nothing caught the wetness between my legs, only wafer-thin nylon. It still tickles when I put on my pantyhose, when I gently brush over it, over the thin skin above my shaved pussy, but meanwhile I can't imagine it any different.

I was a little ashamed of my interview when he asked me to lift up my skirt and show him my pussy. "You want the job, don't you?"he said. I was wondering if he was just testing me. But a decent secretary does what the boss wants her to do, so I put my fingers on my pussy and spread my labia a little bit.

I think he likes her, her smell, her shape, her size. "Wow!"he said, licking his lips. And he likes their taste, too, because he pushed me against the wall, went to his knees and touched them with his tongue. You can't imagine the feeling. Thousand small explosions, strobe flashes, earthquakes. No, I'm not exaggerating. Actually, there are no words for this feeling.

I like my job. Yes, intellectually he doesn't really demand me, I admit that, but the atmosphere here is nice, the people friendly and no great mental effort distracts me from my lust. My boss licks me almost every morning, as a welcome ritual, so to speak. Through the nylon. What kind of job has anyone done that before? He doesn't just love me, I've noticed that, he does it because he enjoys it. And me too. It's a lot of fun.

"I'm always there for you,"I said to him once. "Whenever you like. I also like to do overtime and if you feel like it, just fuck me, you don't need to ask big questions. As long as you're all right."

Yes, it sounds funny, but that makes a nice, warm feeling in his belly when he smiles, when he praises me, not because I typed flawlessly, but because I sucked his cock so beautifully, or when he is happy about my wet pussy. People these days are all so selfish anyway, but it is so wonderful to bring joy to others.

You should see how beautifully he can relax after a stressful meeting, when I then crawl under the table, with my hands pamper his cock and his eggs, when I push the foreskin back, let him glide very slowly into my mouth, first tenderly, then suck on it more and more violently, suck and blow.

When I rub his cock on my cheek, on my eyelids, on my lips. Sometimes when he squirts all his tension into my face, smiles happily and rubs the juice into my face. That's really beautiful. "My sweet little fucker,"he calls me sometimes and then I blush. Because he's a little right.

Because there's a part of me that loves that. A site only he knows and no one else. He who loves not having to be a strong, emancipated woman, but very weak, without will, someone who only serves his lust. Yes, an object that is here exclusively for his satisfaction. It's damn good to submit. At least with a man like that.

These thoughts, this extradit me, it floods my sweet honey column. At times like these, I feel more important and more powerful in my powerlessness than if I had just bought up one company or my shares were soaring.

If he just pushes me to his desk, turns around, shoves my skirt up without asking me much. If he bites a hole in my pantyhose and just takes me the way he wants, just like he thinks it is right. If he takes my hole. My wet pussy, my tight anus and my insatiable mouth. Because it's good for him. A real man who doesn't let me decide, but tells me what to do.

"Suck me tighter" he says sometimes and grabs my hair and presses me against his cock. "Spread your legs, you cunt", some other time. Or "do it to yourself, rub yourself until you come."

As I said, I'm ashamed of it sometimes. When my hand slips into the pantyhose, my clitoris searches and rubs itself, while he observes me watching me while jerking his cock and squirting me on the black pantyhose. When he grins dirty and says,"You filthy, filthy bitch. You cheap fucker. My fuck."

My boss not only gives me wonderful compliments, such as "you blow like a porn star" or "I've never seen such a horny, smooth, shiny pussy shimmer through a pantyhose like yours", he also makes me gifts. Not completely unselfish, partly. The chocolate truffles would be better on his hips than mine, but the pantyhose would look better on me.

He has good taste in secretaries and pantyhose and he knows both. With women and pantyhose. What other man understands something about them and gussets and knows how big the pantyhose is?

This morning he called me to dictate. Yes, he is a bit old-fashioned in these things, although he is familiar with computers and can type and formulate his own words, he refuses to write the scriptures himself. The dictation machine does not agree with him either. "It's not as seductive as you,"he once told me. "And it won't get damp if I touch it in the right places."

He therefore attaches great importance to me appearing with the shorthand pad and pencil, sitting on the comfortable armchair, spreading my legs and having a clear view of my abdomen. "Oh, what a surprise, madam, now wear seamless. Weren't there roses on your legs back there?"he said and touched me with his lighter. Very slowly he has gone along the inside of my thighs, higher and higher, until he has reached the magic triangle.

"Keep still,"he puffed while I was twitching with excitement,"and just keep writing." And then he said a lot of things that had nothing to do with the client at all, and I had to write it down. "A fantastic, lecherous cunt you have,"I wrote down and blushed, and "Did I allow you to get wet like that?"

"Sorry, boss, I mumbled. He kept talking, and I kept writing in silence. Of creamy pussy juice and that he wants to immerse his brush in my bowl and paint me body and face with it, or even better that he lends it to me as a toy, as a hard, warm toy with which I was allowed to get it myself, from his cock with which he later fucked me first in my dark, warm mouth and later in my little whore's pussy.

In my wet jewelry box. But that he still wanted to lick it a little bit, as Amuse gueule, as a gift of the house, so to speak. All these things he said. Obediently, I wrote down everything the boss dictated to me.

Again and again he shoved the lighter through the seamless pantyhose into my hole, which was smacking louder every time. Suddenly he got up. "So, Mrs. Guivarché, I could see how hard his cock was under his pants. I would have liked to have taken it out and spoiled it a little bit, with my fingers, my lips, my mouth, my tongue. "Please read me what you wrote."

I blushed and swallowed. "I can't do this, boss." You must know that's not my language. I speak English, French, a little Russian, but I don't know the fucking language. It excites me to hear these words, but something inside of me prevents me from saying them. He came here, stroked my lips and my chin with his index finger and said,"Oh, you don't want to do what I want from you? The secretaries are waiting in line for this job."

Oh, yeah, I could see that. Again this morning I had enjoyed our morning welcome ritual. I had gone into the executive's office, stood in front of him, pushed up my skirt without a word and showed him that I wore nothing under my pantyhose. He mumbled "bravely", pushed me to the wall, pressed me against it and went to his knees.

He squeezed a gentle kiss on my pussy, then he played with his fingers and his tongue at my sanctuary, greedily sucked up my juice and lowered his head deeper and deeper into my pussy. "Shush, not so loud,"he said when my moaning seemed to get too loud.

He bit a small hole in the expensive pantyhose, but a little further back than usual. Then he simply stuck his finger in my butt while his tongue kept flickering, his fingers were fingered further, everything was smacking with lust and I bit it in my hand for fear of being too loud.

He only let me go when only the foothills of my waves silted up. Then he straightened up, smudged his face and kissed me on the mouth. Let me taste my juice, my pleasure. "Suck it up,"he had encouraged me and I did it. I was surprised how good I tasted, slightly salty and slightly sweet, promising.

No, I didn't mean to jeopardize my job. So I read softly and falteringly what he had told me. Like a timid preschooler, I stammered the dirty words whose pronunciation was so difficult for me to pronounce. "Louder,"he said,"You're not so shy." "If you line up decently and blow me hard,"I read,"then I'll fuck your worthless, filthy, pussy really hard."

That's not who I am. I really don't. I'm not a whore you just take and own. The one you talk to so disrespectfully. I think I have already mentioned this, I am a left-wing feminist. In my early twenties I went out on the streets to fight for women's rights.

And now what? Now I was standing here, working as a secretary despite my studies and letting my boss humiliate me several times a day with sexual coercion and humiliation. Because I wanted him to be well, happy and relaxed, I put up with everything. I read him what he had dictated to me before.

All these dirty, filthy words spilled out of my mouth. I suddenly felt ashamed of it. For not defending myself. For playing this game. But most of all, it excited me, even though I was so repelled. What had become of me? From the student who shouted out loud,"my belly belongs to me"? A submissive, willing secretary who, out of lust and desire, moans submissively "my body belongs to you, boss".

Suddenly it only disgusted me to be reduced to my sexuality, my pussy, my asshole and my mouth.

Tears ran down my cheeks as he pulled his cock out of my pussy, shoved it between nylon and my skin and squirted his juice into my stitches while his hands grabbed me tightly around my hips. He thought my sobbing was a lustful moaning and said,"Well, that turns you on, my fucking bitch, huh?"

I shook my head, turned around and he saw my tears running down my cheeks. Reluctantly he pulled up his trousers, lowered his shoulders helplessly and licked a tear from the dimple above my upper lip. All harshness had left his face.

"Mrs. Guivarché,"he muttered,"what's the matter with you? I thought you'd enjoy that, too. I would never have..." I could have pressed him against me, as he suddenly stood in front of me so boyishly helplessly and smiled at me cheering up.

"It's not your fault." If anyone was to blame for this situation, it was me. I had taken this job. I had sent signals that I was open to everything and ready for you.

I got on right away when I noticed affinity from his pantyhose. I also like these things, they are attractive and beautiful and exciting. I always did. And finally, there was a man who didn't just run away on unstable stockings, but on pantyhose. After all, true eroticism lies in the cloaked, not the bare, I would say.

"Mrs. Guivarché,"my boss muttered,"I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to make you unhappy or even hurt you." "All right, you don't have to apologize,"I snotted and he handed me a handkerchief. "Is there any way I can make it up to you?" "You've done nothing wrong..." It's just... it's just that... Oh, please just hold me down if I can make a wish as a secretary and not just serve."

And they let me. He took me tenderly in his arms, pulled me to himself and kissed me on the mouth. Quite different than before. Very gently and tenderly.

I gave my tears free rein. I was ashamed of myself. For my longing to surrender, the dirty language, my dripping pussy, my tears. I consisted almost entirely of shame. The rest was your fault. "No more crying, please." His kiss became more intimate. His tongue looked for mine and found it too. It wasn't too hard. He played with her, slowly and with pleasure. Nibbled on my lips. So completely different was this kiss, this closeness, this intimacy. Familiar instead of dirty.

"I want to sleep with you,"he said when our lips had dislodged from each other again. Not "I want to fuck you, you bitch,"but "I want to sleep with you." "Why?" "Because you're sharp, funny and witty." Now he even made me smile. At least he had noticed.

"What do they think I am?"He asked between the kisses, which were wet, tender and comforting. "Do you really believe I'd enjoy fucking some humorless, blonde snipe?" Now I shrugged helplessly. "I don't know." "Listen to me carefully,"he grabbed me by the shoulders. "The attraction of the matter is that an intelligent, attractive, lovable woman whom I respect, admire and desire has fun in submitting to me consciously. I know about your skills, I've even thought about entrusting you with the foreign department."

What did he say? A leading position in his company? Are you serious? I confess, the offer appealed to me. At the same time, it upset me. Which secretary would take my place? Spread your legs every morning and be pampered by him? "Mrs. Guivarché,"he continued,"it's a game. I don't make the rules. We'll both make the rules."

His hands wandered along my back and stuck to my butt. "We can also turn the roles around if you like. You decide, I obey. I've never tried that before, but I'm open." "Certainly not,"it gushed out of me. "Certainly not. We're not turning back anything. If you want, you can fuck me now."

When I'm in the company, I only have eyes for my work - and my boss. "For the good of the company, I do almost anything,"I said. He was pleased, grabbed me by the waist and said that if he was happy, the company would do well. If the company was doing well, he'd be fine. His company and he would be one.

He would have hired me because he was convinced that I would do him and the company good. He rubbed himself a little bit on me so that I could feel his breath in my face and his hard cock through the suit pants. "Boss, I hate to interrupt, but you've got an appointment. Mr. Ebner is coming. I put him in between, he meant it was crowded."

Martin Ebner had stormed into the secretary's office this morning and wanted to see the boss. But he wasn't there. Quite a handsome man, Mr. Ebner. In the middle of his forties, casually dressed, upstairs a black, tight shirt, under which the muscles appeared, below jeans to button up. Ha! I guess you were expecting me to say that this is where his cock started to show up. I wasn't looking that closely.

By the way, I like button-on jeans. There's something much more exciting and erotic about unbuttoning than a simple zipper. unbuttoning is like slow food...

His hair was cut short and could not quite decide whether it wanted to be brown or already grey. His gaze had something mischievous, his body was well trained, but without showing off with the muscles. I find it disgusting that men, who are seen from a distance of three kilometres away, see that the muscle mass not only in their bodies, but also in their lives has more weight than that of the brain.

Mr Ebner was so proportionate that many a woman would like to see her arms grab hard. Not me, of course. I'm not like that, you know. How am I not? I'm not an easy girl. No village mattress. Yes, I love to fuck, I like to suck, I love to be licked, I think I've already mentioned that, but deep down inside I'm a faithful soul. I've been faithful to my new boss for weeks. That's easy for me. I don't lack anything in the company. Not at exciting tasks, not at praise and recognition, and especially not at sex.

"Mr. Ebner had drilled his blue-grey eyes into mine. Then he bribed me, even though by nature I am a rather uncorrupted person. But with beautiful pantyhose and fine confectionery I occasionally overlook the virtue of incorruptibility.

Ebner's candy was the best in town. Tenderly it lay down over the tongue, as thin as a 15DEN nylon pantyhose, only a hint of a hull. It comes across quite harmlessly, smells innocently of vanilla and caramel and suddenly explodes on the palate. A minefield of the senses.

So I put Mr. Ebner in between. I didn't want what came next, honestly. I served well-behaved Ginger Ale and Bitter Lemon, smiled at the gentlemen and wanted to steal away quietly. I was almost at the door when Mr. Ebner asked my boss,"Does she swallow too?"

I swallowed, I blushed with shame. I felt the anger crawl up inside me. What did this confectionery clown think he was doing? I could have sneaked out quickly, pretending to have overheard this outrageous insincerity, but I just stopped as if paralyzed.

"Yes, she swallows heavenly, Martin." Oh, the gentlemen were per you I determined. "But you should see this fantastic cunt. The best I've ever had. Smooth, always wet, pounding with lust, a masterpiece." My boss got into raptures. "Someday I'll photograph her, frame this nylon cunt, and hang a heavily enlarged print in the bedroom."

My anger was mixed with pride and joy at the words of my boss. No one had ever talked about me like that before. Yes, they praised my outfit, my intellect, my quick-wittedness, my eloquence, but never before had one man told another in my presence details about my pussy.

"May I see it?" Martin Ebner sipped his ginger ale. "The masterpiece. The original?" Anger, pride, excitement and joy were joined by defiance. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. "Certainly not." "Mrs. Guivarché, now my boss's voice sounded severe. "Mr. Ebner is one of our most important clients. We can't afford to lose him as a customer. The good of the company, you understand?"

With his index finger he surrounded the edge of his glass. "Wasn't it your words that you would do anything for the good of the company?" "Almost everything,"I corrected it. "Oh, my little private bitch secretary disagrees? Did I let you do that?" I swallowed again. Then I saw the flickering in his eyes. "Sorry, boss. Of course it is. The company's fine, the boss is fine. Boss is fine, secretary's fine."

"Come on, don't waffle around. Show us your gorgeous pussy." "Mr. Ebner whispered to me," as a reward." "He can only look,"I snorted to the boss as I walked

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