"Hummm," said Carl.

He gave her the job.

It meant that he had to do a lot of work that a skilled secretary would have handled, but he figured it was worth the extra effort, just to have Cathy around to look at.

That was all he did – just look. For two days.

On the third day, she came into his private office, looking unhappy. Carl looked up from his desk. Her tits loomed out at him.

"Mister Tremayne," she said, "I feel so useless!"

He tried to think of some job he could assign her that she couldn't fuck up too much.

But she went on. "I've been working here for three whole days now, and you haven't given me dictation even once."

He wanted to soothe her. He hated to see her so unhappy. He decided to dictate a letter which she could subsequently type – and then he could tear up and throw away.

"Do you have your pad?" he asked. "Urn-hum," she said, brightening and looking cheerful now.

And then, to his amazement, she came around the desk and plopped her luscious ass into his lap.

"This is the way it's done, right," she said.

"Well – em – yes, certainly," he agreed.

His cock had started to swell immediately, as her juicy ass squirmed around in his lap. He could not think of a single word to dictate to her. All of his blood had rushed into his prick and his brain was starved for oxygen. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but no words came forth. Cathy didn't seem to notice. In fact, she didn't. She had not the faintest idea that dictation involved taking notes – she thought the word meant sitting on the boss' dick.

She squirmed some more and his cock began to hammer.

"Oh, this is such a nice job," she said.

She wriggled some more. The hem of her skirt drew halfway up her smooth thighs. She crossed her legs. The skirt went higher.

Carl was sweating and blushing, afraid that she would realize what the heaving lump under her ass was.