Busty prude
Today I stocked up on a bottle of rose-scented massage oil. There were more exotic options, but with Sashenka, the main thing is not to overcomplicate things — the more standard, the more reliable. Her unclouded-by-knowledge brains could easily get stuck on something like patchouli and conclude, "I won't let him put that on me." And I really wanted to smear something all over her. Well, in the end — semen, of course. Right on her delicate face, plump lips, wide-open, perpetually surprised, cornflower-blue eyes... As a last resort, her breasts would do — huge, quivering, round, with enormous areolas... I'd observed them more than once — Sashenka loved low-cut
blouses and open bras, and her pink areolas often peeked out almost halfway.My favorite memory was of Sashenka recently signing a report for me — that day she was playing "the real secretary": a tight black knee-length skirt, hugging her hips and clearly outlining the delta of her pubis, a white shirt with the top three buttons undone and a long, sharp collar whose points directed attention to her outstanding bust: as if to say, the nipples are that way, — crimson lips shaped like a bow, stylish glasses with plain lenses, a business-like, high, tightly wound-up hairstyle. She strode over to me on high heels, her breasts so tightly bound by the shirt that only their very top semicircles swayed beneath the fabric. Suddenly, the sun came out from behind a cloud, and its ray illuminated Sashenka like a star on stage, and I clearly saw that she wasn't wearing a bra — and the areolas, the size of saucers from a children's set, with little bumps around the edges, and the firm nubs of her nipples, and even the central dimples of them showed through and were clearly outlined by the shirt. My heart pounded in my throat, my cock strained against my pants.
"Igor Viktorovich," Sashenka said, not noticing my state, and leaned over the desk, laying the report in front of me.
Her magical breasts hung over the desk. I hastily cupped them from below, muttering in a breaking voice something about spilled tea on the desk and not wanting her to stain her blouse. Sashenka remained half-bent, looking at me with confused cornflower-blue eyes and believing my every word. Meanwhile, I was kneading her bounty with trembling hands, tender, heavy, slippery...
"Thank you, Igor Viktorovich," Sashenka thanked me sincerely and finally straightened up.
"Sashenka," I shook my head, as if disapprovingly, "since when have you stopped wearing underwear? It's impossible to breathe. I, for example, had my breath taken away."
"I do wear it," Sashenka objected, offended. "It's just not the right bra today: the cups are way too big, they peek out here," she pointed with a manicured finger to the cleavage between her breasts, visible in the shirt's opening, and continued instructively, "and that's not allowed, for underwear to be visible, it's vulgar! So I folded the cups inward twice and laid my breasts on top," she even laughed at her own cleverness. "And it's comfortable for my little breasts, and they're in underwear, not like some slut! And the bra even gathered them up a bit, lifted them, look how nice it looks now," she shoved her buffers into my nose and shook them. "I'll probably always walk around like this now. Though, my titties seem a size bigger, the shirt, see, can't handle it..."
Genuinely distressed, Sashenka sighed heavily. Two buttons in the already stretched buttonholes couldn't take it and popped off to the sides. The shirt flew open, Sasha's assets surged forward, blazing in the sunlight. Indeed, pulled tight by the bra straps and lying in its velvet folded cups like in palms, her breasts swung heavily and stared at me with their nipples, like two barrels.
"Oh!" Sashenka cried out and pressed her palms to her lips, squeezing her breasts even more, so that the huge areolas swelled, and a bluish venous network appeared on them.
"Sashenka!" I gasped and grabbed what was offered to me. "What have you done! Tsk tsk tsk! What if someone comes in? Let me cover them, at least just with my hands!" — while I greedily kneaded the heavy, cool, silky breasts.
"Forgive me, Igor Viktorovich!" Sashenka repented. "I've put you in such a spot!"
"It's nothing, Sashenka, we'll fix it!" I muttered, reveling in the feel of her breasts in my hands. How I wanted to throw her back on the desk right now, rip her skirt, and slam my steaming cock balls-deep into her wetly squelching pussy! So she'd moan, and her breasts would sway in time with the thrusts, pulled by her outstretched arms, and then drench them in semen. And make her lick it all off — so as not to stain the bra, of course. No, impossible. Because Sashenka sees nothing erotic in this situation. Not even anything risqué. She's thinking about the disorder in her clothes and about putting me in a spot (what if someone comes in?), and not at all about her bare breasts in my palms.
She tried to pull the top buttons together, but the shirt fronts wouldn't meet. She pulled harder and tore off another lower button. Sashenka helplessly spread her hands, not understanding that she was standing naked in front of me, and her tits swayed just as helplessly.
"Tie it in a knot, cowboy-style," I advised.
Sashenka smiled happily and, unbuttoning the shirt completely, tied it tightly under her breasts by the corners.
"Well? How is it?" she asked, spinning in the middle of the office. The thin, semi-transparent shirt draped her tits in two little sacks, so that she might as well have been naked, just with her tits drenched in milk.
"Very good, Sashenka. Modest and youthful."
And so she delighted our entire office for the remaining two working hours. The toilet was constantly occupied, and the men ran around with wild eyes, red, panting. The other two women in our office ran around the same way — out of anger. And only Sashenka understood nothing, batted her long eyelashes, and cheerfully walked all over the office.
You'd think, with such a mind and innocence — just go for it and fuck her, but Sashenka is a girl of high moral principles. She's married, and her husband doesn't allow her to fuck strangers. She said so directly when I tried to hug and kiss her at a corporate party. However, Sashenka's breasts wouldn't leave my imagination, and I decided to stock up on massage oil. Today everyone is leaving for the opening of our new sex shop, and I, as the boss, am staying at work for, like, preparing tax documents, and I'm leaving Sashenka too. She'll get tired, poor thing, and I'll give her a little massage... She, the silly girl, won't understand, will see it as care, and agree. And then we'll see how it goes. If I don't fuck her, I'll at least get a good feel.
"Sashenka!" I called her impatiently as soon as everyone had left. "Let's get to work on the documents!"
"Yes, Igor Viktorovich!" she entered the office, dressed in a loose blouse with a jabot, beneath which her bare breasts swayed, only supported from below by the folded cups of her bra, and in tight little pants, cutting into her pussy and hugging her large labia. The crease was a bit damp — the seam, it seemed, was rubbing Sashenka's clit as she walked. In her hands, Sashenka was twirling an oblong box. "Look, the first sample of our new peignoir! I've been forgetting to show you since yesterday."
"Tsk tsk tsk, Sashenka. Come here, I'm going to punish you."
Sighing, she came over and habitually arched, offering me her tightly-panted ass. I admired the contours of the thong's string and the not-too-long slit of her pussy, framed by fleshy lips. The slit was wetter than I thought. I spanked Sashenka's tight butt a few times with a good pull, ran my finger over the snotty wetness, rubbed it between my fingers, and sniffed — no doubt, vaginal secretion.
"Is that all, Igor Viktorovich?"
"Yes, Sashenka, the offense wasn't serious."
She sincerely believed she had received punishment, as was proper, and that I punished other subordinates the same way; probably the men too.
Straightening up, she looked at me with wide eyes:
"So, will you look at it?"
Plans change!
I thoughtfully chewed my lip:
"You see, Sashenka, I don't understand anything like this. It's a rag and a rag, well, semi-transparent, well, delicate... It needs to be on a body."
"And where am I supposed to get a body for you right now?" she fluttered her eyelashes in confusion.
"Models usually demonstrate for me. But you forgot yesterday, so I didn't call the modeling agency, so everything is postponed... Trouble! The peignoir needs to be supplied to the store tomorrow or taken out of production. I don't even know what to do..."
Sashenka's eyes filled with tears, her plump lips trembled:
"Igor Viktorovich! I've put you in such a spot again!"
No, she won't figure it out herself.
"Sashenka! But you yourself are a girl!"
"Well," she drawled, puzzled.
"And an appetizing girl. You could perfectly well demonstrate the peignoir to me yourself!"
"Really?" she looked at the box doubtfully. "But I don't know how."
"I'll tell you how to move, how to bend. You just try it on."
"But that means I have to be naked..."
"Well."
"Won't I embarrass you? We do work together, after all."
Had she forgotten how she shook her bare tits in front of me the other day?
"I'll endure it, it's for the sake of the business."
"Well, if it's for business," she sighed and left. Too bad, I was hoping she'd change right in the office. But — high moral principles: the girl is used to the toilet and the dressing room.
"Igor Viktorovich, may I?"
You must!
"Of course, Sashenka, come in," I sprawled on the leather sofa, having prepared two glasses of cognac and a lemon.
She entered, wrapped in last year's development — a dark blue velvet cloak with a hood à la medieval.
"I was embarrassed to walk through the office in the little peignoir," the girl confessed, "what if some cleaning lady..."
The cleaning lady comes tomorrow, but I'm not about to explain to a naked beauty under this velvet cloak about even and odd days of the week.
"Come here, Sashenka," I gestured invitingly. "Before a demonstration, models always have a drink."
"Why?" Sashenka asked warily.
"I don't know. It's customary, I guess. If neither you nor I are particularly versed in the work of models, let's follow all their rules."
"But I only drink champagne and martini..."
"And they only drink cognac. And a glass in one gulp," I added sternly, seeing Sashenka still hesitating. "It's necessary for work."
Sashenka sighed and walked towards me. Her walk took my breath away. The cloak was fastened only at the throat, and smooth legs in white lace stockings slipped out from the parting flaps, and bare breasts gleamed.
Prayerfully closing her eyes, Sashenka drank the glass of cognac like water. Her cheeks turned pink, her little eyes sparkled. Standing before me, she smiled slyly and twirled the fastener at her throat with her fingers. The dark velvet fell to the floor. She stood in a long white peignoir, a lace corset cinching her waist, transparent panels flowed to the floor over steep hips, parting at the pubis, displaying for view tiny transparent panties with the curls of pubic hair showing through beneath them. Above all this tender splendor swelled huge breasts, blushing pink with embarrassment, modestly looking to the sides and slightly downward with touching little nipples on astonishingly large areolas.
"Well? Am I doing it right?"
You bet! I licked my dry lips:
"I don't know yet, Sashenka. What, does the model call for bare breasts?"
"It's like this, Igor Viktorovich," she chattered, "my figure is non-standard! A thin waist, a small but round butt, and disproportionately large size six breasts. And the little peignoir is made for small-breasted women, my little breasts wouldn't fit into the cups. So I hung them outside! That's not bad either, is it?"
"Very good! I think we'll implement that idea in the next model."
Sashenka smiled joyfully.
"And you don't wear panties under this peignoir."
"But they were in the set," she fluttered her eyelashes, raising a breeze.
Damn.
"Oversight. I'll remove them from the set."
"So should I take them off? It's embarrassing..."
"It's necessary, Sashenka. I'm also working with you here, not sparing any effort."
She sighed, parted the transparent panels, and rolled the thong down her straight legs, so that her stunning breasts hung down to their full length and swayed invitingly. She straightened up. A narrow, light strip of pubic hair ended in a "swallow's tail," a disobedient curl curled right above the corner of her pussy slit.
"Let your hair down."
She threw back her hands and pulled the hairpin from her hair. Her hair cascaded down her back in a wave of dark gold.
"Walk, please."
She walked from corner to corner, the panels flying open lightly, revealing shapely legs on heels, breasts bouncing perkily, truly amazingly round little buttocks rolling in the shimmering white transparent silk.
"Spin around."
Laughing brightly, Sashenka spun like a top, her hair, the panels of the peignoir, her breasts flying up and following. Out of breath, she fell right onto my lap.
"Oh, forgive me, Igor Viktorovich!"
"Well, be careful, I am the boss after all," I said hastily, groping everything that came to hand, as if helping her up, but actually hindering. Sashenka slid to the floor in front of my feet and, breathing heavily, looked up at me excitedly from below, bare-breasted, rosy-cheeked, with shining cornflower-blue eyes.
"So, have you seen enough? Can I get dressed?"
Like a bucket of cold water. I forget again that for her nothing erotic is happening, she really is just working overtime.
"No, Sashenka, sit like that for a while."
"Why?"
"Listen, have you really never cheated on your husband?"
"Why are you asking that?"
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