writingdirty

Dirty stories by Jack Stratton

Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Seven

It was a Wednesday when I finished my assignment. I put my diary on Mister McIntyre’s desk with all my dirty secrets open for him. My teenage fumblings and my embarrassing attempts at dating. All of my dirty dreams and forbidden fantasies. All the times I had to go into the bathroom and rub myself while covering my mouth because Mister McIntyre had leaned over me while I typed a letter or chided me for taking too long at lunch.

On Friday I still hadn’t heard a word about it from him. He still had my diary. I saw him take it home with him on Wednesday and Thursday, the pink and purple looking absurd under his arm as he walked out. I hadn’t been able to sleep much either night as I tried to remember what was the most embarrassing thing I had written.

He’d either forgotten about me or he was letting me stew and think about it until it drove me mad. Both options were equally frustrating. Friday seemed to take for ever. Mister McIntyre came in late, he seemed a little angry. He was stomping around ordering me to fetch things. I was in such a tizzy I’d almost forgot about everything. Almost.

That’s when he slapped it down on the desk. My diary, looking the same as when he had me give it to him. I didn’t look up at him, I couldn’t, I just took the thing and put it in my desk drawer. He was still there, though, still looming over me waiting for something.

I opened my mouth, but my throat was dry. “Yes… Mister Mc-”

“I think I’m going to need you on Sunday.” he cut me off, but then paused.

“Sir?” what did that mean? I think I’m going to need you on Sunday? Need be to do what? Just… need me?

He looked down at me, but I couldn’t look up. I looked up to his square chin. His neck. The thick knot of his tie. My throat felt like it was tightening.

“I’m working on something and I am going to need a typist. Someone to take dictation. Minutes, you know.”

“Minutes? Like a meeting?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

There was silence and I added, “Sir?”

There was the slightest tiniest smile across those lips. “Minutes, like a meeting.” he said, clarifying nothing.

“You are going to need to dress up a bit. I’m going to have Marcy go over to your place and drop off something suitable. Do your makeup, what ever magic she seems to do. You can keep the dress.” he looked down at me. For the first time in our relationship he was doing something completely new. He was waiting for an answer. He was giving me the choice, because this was the next step. This wasn’t work and this wasn’t the office.

“I’ll be there, sir.”

And that was the end of the conversation. From frustration to utter confusion.

Saturday was the longest day in the history of days. Nothing on the radio and furious cleaning of my room. Marcy was coming back, coming to dress me, make me up, try and brush the mousiness out of me. I didn’t know what Mister McIntyre told her. I didn’t know anything about their world.

Take minutes? Type? Where? Was it all a joke on me?

On Sunday I realized I didn’t know what time Marcy was coming over. Eloise was sitting on the couch knitting, her red hair in curlers and her giant glasses magnifying her eyes like a fly’s.

It was a half past noon and I was about to bribe Eloise to go to the movie when there was a knock at the door.
She came in with that same power, as if she owned the place and had forgotten she bought something so distasteful. She looked at me like I was an oddity, like she was still trying to figure out what all the fuss was about.

She walked in carrying a few shopping bags in one hand and dragging a dry cleaning bag in the other.

“Don’t just stand there, take this!” she exclaimed, holding out the bags to me. “What are you? An 8? Maybe 6ish of you skip lunch? More like an 8. I got this dress from my cousin. I’ve been been anywhere near that big since high school.”

She looked down at Eloise who had stopped knitting and was looking at Marcy with slack jawed awe. Marcy didn’t acknowledge her.

“You don’t have much up top do you?” she said looking at my chest. “We can work with it. You’re still 22 so they’ll stand up tall and proud no matter what.”

Eloise’s eyes nearly fell out as be looked over at me.

I rushed over and took all the bags and scurried to my room hoping that Miss Peterson would follow. She did, at a decidedly slow pace. When we got to the room I put the bags on the bed and closed the door. Miss Peterson stood looked at me with and ponderous face, as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle. She was fingering her bottom lip as Sherlock Holmes would play with his pipe.

Marcy picked up her purse and giving me a rather stern gaze pulled out a small silver case. From it she took a small expensive looking pair of reading glasses and slipped them on. Walking up to me I backed up as I always seemed to do around her. I found myself sitting on the bed as she moved in closer.

“Well, your skin isn’t bad.” she roughly pinched my cheeks. “and your hair is… well… alright your hair is pretty bad, but we can do something.”

She stood in front of me and pulled my hair back, looking at me from different angles. I didn’t know what to do with my arms, I folded my hands in my lap. She was so close and there was that smell again. Expensive perfume.

“Ok, let’s see if this fits.” she said, suddenly on me and pulling at my clothes.

“Miss Peterson?”

She pulled me up, almost ripping my old green housedress. Then she was pulling my dress off.

“Miss Peterson!”

“YES Abigail? That IS my name. Would you like to add something to it? Is there something you want to let me know?”

Her voice was sarcastic and cruel. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what she was going to do.

She got my dress off. I sat there in my old bra and panties. I saw myself in the mirror and I looked miserable.

“I brought underthings too. A nice bra and panty set. Everything starts with foundation, Abigail. I brought a few sizes…” she cupped my breasts suddenly and I let out a squeal.

“Miss Peterson!”

She scoffed at my pleas.

“34B? Around that. We can give you a little padding.” She reached behind me and unhooked my bra pulling it off. I lifted my hands, though I’m not sure if it was to help her or stop her and she slapped them away.

“Well. You look a bit different out of that ratty dress.” her eyes made me blush. I lifted my arm to cover myself and she slapped them down. Then she reached up and cupped one of my breasts again, sort of measuring the small weight of it.

I whispered a hissing “Miss Peterson!”

Her eyes darkened. “That is my name Abigail. Do you have something to say to me? Do you want to say ‘no’? Is that it? Then tell me no, Abigail!”

She was on me now, pushing me back, both hands on my chest, feeling me like a man would. She pulled at my nipples.

“I… please I…” I begged.

“I? There isn’t an I in’no’ Abigail. You’re a typist, you should know that. N-O two little letters.”

Then her hands were like snakes on me pushing me down and greedily roaming across my skin. My sides and my arms and down my stomach.

“Please!”

She laughed loudly. “Please! Please what? Please more? You seem like you are upset Abby. Tell me to stop, come on.”

Then I froze. Her hands stopped and then slowly moved down. Down to pink cotton. Down to a place where only I had ever touched.

My mouth opened. I wanted to stop her. Didn’t I? I just had to say it.

Her smooth hands slipped right into my panties. They were old and loose. Then I couldn’t speak or look at her. Her hands knew my every secret. They knew what no one ever knew. She knew my every button and how to push them. I didn’t even know how it happened so fast, but my body was racing. Her fingers were somehow wet. Could it be from me? Could I be that wet already?

Then her finger was inside of me and I was gripping her shoulder. Two of her delicate fingers already too much for me. Then back to that spot, that treacherous spot. So close. I imagined her stopping then, suddenly. It seems like what she would do that wicked woman. But she didn’t and then everything was white lightning and my gasps.

As my body fell back to Earth her voice became honeyed. “Lovely. I don’t think we will need that blush, will we dear. You will be bright red all day.”

Then that wicked hand of her moved down, down to do something I couldn’t imagine! Down behind me! She was about to touch my rear!

“Miss Peterson! N…. NO!”

And she was off me. Like that. Her face radiating with that dark smile.

“Good. You do know how to say it.”

She stood up. Looking down at me.

“Things are going to happen around Mister McIntyre, Abigail. You have to know your limitations. I have to make sure you know what you can and can’t handle and you know how to say no when you don’t want something.”

Her eyes were on mine as she brought her hand up and inhaling deeply, here eye closing as she groaned. Then her fingers went to her mouth and sucked the top of each finger. She looked back at me, a little shaken that I saw her lose her cool for a moment.

“Let’s wash you up, Abigail. It’s going to be a long day.”

She handed me my dress and I slipped it on, then we left my room and went into the bathroom. From the corner of my eye I saw Eloise, her eyes almost bigger than her glasses, sitting there in shock. A ball of thread fallen to the floor and still rolling away.

Next Chapter

6 Comments

  1. Ohhhh, gosh, Miss Peterson! She’s training Abigail. That was like a training sequence!! Teaching her how to say no. Teaching her what she likes. Menacing AND caring.

    I do wish real life worked like smut does more often.

  2. Where exactly can one sign up for this Vixen-Godmother Outreach Program? Foxy chicks turning up at my door with foundation garments and attitude problems, getting me off in front of my mirror?–Yes, please!

  3. @janie let's live like we are in a dirty story. Oh wait, we are.

    @mariella I'll put you on the waiting list, dear. For now Janie & I will take you in hand.

  4. I love the line in the beginning about the diary looking absurd under his arm.

  5. OMG where is part 8? I need it, I need to know whether Abigail learns her place

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