The secretary led her into the room and sat her upon the couch.
"When Mr. Goodsmith comes in, you're to do whatever he tells you, no exceptions. The reason you're here is for his pleasure," Mr. Goodsmith's personal assistant paused and looked at Ashlyn. "If he's unsatisfied you're out of a job."
She looked sheepishly up at the older woman, her lower lip quivering slightly the way a person's does when they meet their personal idol. This woman had the life Ashlyn wanted: successful, independent, and young enough to still be a fox! She must be almost forty but her breasts were still firm under her button-up shirt and her tight black skirt hugged two supple, bountiful ass cheeks. Her brunette hair was pulled back and her glasses her thin-rimmed.
Ashlyn on the other hand was shorter, younger, more inexperienced and more abundant in her proportions. Where as Mr. Goodsmith's personal assistant had breasts delicately carved from the bounty of her bosom, like two ripening grapefruits nestled against each other, Alshyn's breasts were less graceful, two large handfuls of tits added like an afterthought to her figure. Her biggest asset in her own mind was her bottom, of which she took pride in showing off with by bending over often while wearing mini skirts and letting men get a good look. Its shape was taught and more proportionate to her body type than her large tits.
"If you have any questions, now is the best time to ask them. He'll be here momentarily."
"How old is he?"
"Mr. Goodsmith prefers to let personal details like that remain unknown. He's probably around forty-five, if you must know."
"Is he handsome?"
The secretary smirked at this, "From one working woman to another, you're in for a treat. Mr. Goodsmith is one of the main perks of working for Mr. Goodsmith."
With that, she tidied the mohogeny desk in the center of the room and then left, closing the office doors behind her with a soft hush. Ashlyn was left alone in the room, her anticipation and excitement making her toes flex and her knees bounce.
She thought of the first time she was with an older man, about his intimate working knowledge of female anatomy, and how to do just what she wanted him to without her having to ask. He was gentle and patient, diligent and persistent. She had never climaxed so hard as she had that night with him, their lovemaking went long into the morning. She was done with boys after that.
The door opened in the midst of her daydream and Mr. Goodsmith walked into the room with purpose and poise. He was distinguished: tall, lean, and graying slightly at the temples. He paused for a moment in front of Ashlyn, his eyes devouring her modest curves and pale skin. Hers did the same, tracing the outline of his cream-colored suit and stopping suddenly when they locked with his, both of their sexual energies emitting sparks as they eyed each other hungrily.
"You're the new girl?"
"Yes Mr. Goldsmith."
"What's your name?"
"Ashlyn LaRouche"
"Interesting. French?"
