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(Her Secret Fantasy, continued by Anon2...)

“Just unbutton some of the top buttons on your blouse. Maybe that’ll hold him over till the end of the day,” you text.

“But Ross, my boobs will be practically falling out of my shirt!”

“I know,” you reply, “but I’m out of ideas. This is still better than another titty-fuck.”

“Whatever you say,” she responds. A picture comes in quickly after the message, and you about fall out of your chair. Rachel’s cleavage is deep enough that you can identify the shape of each breast individually, and you think you glimpse her nipple through her lacy bra. Part of you regrets giving her the advice, but it sure beats her jerking off her boss. And it gives you excellent wanking material for later.

You meet Rachel later that day at home. It seems like the plan worked out alright, but there’s an added hitch.

“Well, my boobs did the trick. John couldn’t keep his eyes of them all day, and he was too busy staring to do much of anything else. Well actually, there was one thing he did.” Rachel pulls a folded piece of paper out of her pocket, which you quickly glance over.

“A dress code?” you exclaim.

“I know right?” Rachel responds. John told me it was standard for my new position, but that’s total bullshit. Just look at some of these requirements!“

You read the paper more closely. Three inch heels, minimum? Skirts must be six inches above the knees? Cleavage must exceed 3.75 inches? You admire John’s attention to detail, but this has gone too far.

But suddenly, you burst out laughing. Rachel can only stare at you in confusion, but you can’t control yourself. “What the hell, Ross? This is serious!”

You manage to choke out a response between laughs. “Oh I know. But John has gone too far. This dress code alone is enough material to start a viral rampage. Just you watch.” You pull out your laptop and open as many feminist forums as you find. A few posts and rants later, you sit back and admire your handiwork. With material this good, it should only take a few hours…

Your prediction proves to be correct. Your posts go viral, as feminists groups across the country express their outrage against John’s abuse of masculine power. With some strong hints from you, it doesn’t take long before the internet identifies that John is the author of the document, and the calls for his head begin. By nine o’clcok at night the company responds to public pressure, and John is fired.

You and Rachel celebrate over a glass of wine and laugh at John’s stupidity. You read the dress code again, this time laughing at its ridiculousness instead of fretting about how to solve it. The experience is much better.

“Why don’t you keep that thing around,” you tell Rachel. “Maybe you can try some of those outfits on sometime. I wouldn’t tell.”

“Why don’t I try one tonight? I may have helped start a feminist rampage today, but tonight I’ll be your personal slut.”

You heartily agree, and Rachel sends you to wait in the bedroom. You wait impatiently, with just thoughts alone giving you a massive erection. Rachel enters after a few minutes, and you can’t believe your eyes.

Rachel has picked her tallest heels, and the six inches of leverage make her legs look amazing. Her skirt sweetens the deal, and puts most miniskirts to shame. The bottom half of her ass is hanging out, and the only thing left to the imagination is her pussy itself. Her top is a tight shirt, which obviously was meant to be worn with an undershirt. It’s completely see through, and you can clearly see every detail of her hardened nipples.

“Oh Ross, I’ve been a very bad secretary,” Rachel says. She faces her ass toward you, and leans over. Her skirt rides up to reveal her dripping pussy, absent of any panties. “Why don’t you show me who’s boss?”

The End


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