Who needs a fairy godmother when you have a garter belt? Three promotions in thrice the number of months proved that. With each raising of position came a change in work quality, my lifestyle, and my wardrobe. Around the firm, the other secretaries called me the Queen Bee, a pun on my name, Beatrice.
Beginning my tenure as an unassigned floor secretary, which is little more than an indentured lackey, I was promoted to a section secretary strictly on merit. That meant that I was bustling back and forth while the junior investment counselors plied their trade. While the big-shot investors might be the boisterous rowdies in the spotlight, the secretaries, filing the paperwork, typing up the contracts, and making sure the investment team had everything they needed, were the true lifeblood of the company. As a section secretary, I managed a platoon of harried women, keeping them in line.
My second promotion, to the position of managerial secretary, was due to both my competence and my ass. We'll blame my garter belt for my final promotion. While the powers behind the thrones, we administrative types, come in all shapes and sizes, mine is sexy, petite, and lithe. Eschewing power suits, pants suits, and slacks, I opted for mid-thigh pencil skirts, and for good reason.
I’m small in stature, standing just barely over five feet tall, but excellently proportioned. With slim hips, a firm body, and nearly flawless, smooth skin, my toned butt added just enough swell and curve to highlight my shapely legs. A pair of high and firm breasts, slightly larger than apples, looked much larger than their actual B-cup, especially with a pronounced separation between them. Free weights, Yoga, and plenty of exercising assured that, for me, a bra was optional. On me, a straight profile was the type of garment cut that enhanced my figure.
I didn’t mind the leers and lusty drools from the junior investors in the pit, as they called it. In fact, I enjoyed it and began dressing a little sexier, just to tease and entice. An undone button on the blouse or a skirt a tiny bit shorter than what would be considered appropriate when surrounded by hyper-charged men hopped up on adrenaline, caffeine, and who knows what else was both fun and harmless. While a lot of my peers in the secretarial pool dated the investors, I just teased.
One frenetic day, I was going over several reams of incorrectly filled out purchase orders, quite nicely and amicably correcting the guilty party’s mistakes. We were laughing and conversing as I helped her learn the paperwork, and I was bent over my desk, my tawny ass sticking up and out, showing her the proper procedures on the paper. John, the section head, walked by and saw us. Not speaking, he stood to the side and observed us with lust-filled eyes.
Seeing him, I smiled demurely, gave my long, shiny brown locks a little toss, and returned to my work. Section managers can stand around looking important, but we had real work to do.
“The boss is staring at your ass,” my coworker observed in a hushed whisper.
“Who cares?” I responded. “We’re almost done, here.”
The next day I received a call from Human Resources the minute I sat down at my desk. “Miss Knoll, this is Nathan in HR. John Turley, your section head, gave us a call yesterday afternoon and needs to speak with you. Your appointment is at 10:30.”
My stomach turned in knots, and my heart sank. It was Friday, and firings always occurred on a Friday. My first thought was that he’d taken issue with my skirt being a bit too tight and short, or my blouse having two buttons undone. Perhaps he didn’t like the fact that my makeup was a bit too sultry for the office.
“Um, I guess,” I told Nathan. “He is my boss. Do you have any idea what this is about?”
“Not at all, sorry. Good luck, Beatrice.”
Nervous and worried, the next two hours crawled by so slowly that they felt like weeks. Finally, the time had arrived and I walked into the two-chamber office. Daphne, his blond, thirty-something secretary, was sitting at her desk, doing her nails. Two luxurious chairs were off to one side, and I could see John in the other chamber, without a door, sitting at his desk. His jacket was off, hanging on a coat rack, and his tie was slightly loosened. His feet were propped up on his desk, designer, Italian leather gleaming in the light.
“So, yeah,” I heard him saying. “How about we do lunch at say two, two-thirty and hash out the details. My treat. The Cabana.” He paused. “Fine, meet you there.”
“Janice, send her on in.”
His personal secretary gave me a professional, detached smile and nodded. “Mr. Turley will speak with you, now.” She got up and left the private office.
”Beatrice, is it?” John asked me as he took his shoes off the desk and sat upright from his reclining position.
“Call me Bee.”
“Have a seat, Bee.” He gestured at a comfy, leather chair in front of his desk. “I’m John,” he paused and chuckled, “as you know, right?”
“You wanted to speak with me, Mr. Turley.”
“Please, call me John. Mr. Turley is my father. Let’s get right to it, then. I’ve been watching you.”
“I noticed.” I didn’t bother to mention that those brilliant, blue eyes of his boring into me had gotten me so worked up that I fingered myself in the ladies’ bathroom later that day.
“You’re smart, friendly, quite skilled, and personable,” he began listing my traits.
Not to mention you like my ass, I mentally added. I prepared myself for the chewing of my shapely ass, perhaps even getting fired.
“And Janice is leaving the company due to family issues. Today is her last day. I’ve chosen you to be my new, personal secretary.”
I opened my mouth, my self-defense speech ready. Then, what he’d said registered. “I, ah, you’re offering me a promotion?”
“Think about it over the weekend, okay?” He slid a piece of paper with the investment firm’s letterhead emblazoned on the top. “But, take the rest of the day off, with pay, of course, to mull it over.”
He picked up the phone and dialed a few digits, an interoffice call. “Shirley, this is John down in the pit. I’ve just spoken to Beatrice…sorry… Bee Knoll about a promotion, and I gave her the rest of the day off, with pay, to think about it. Make sure she’s not docked.”
He slammed the phone down in the cradle. “Looks like you have a three-day weekend. Thank you, Miss Knoll.”
“Call me, Bee, John.” I stood and shook his hand, then exited with my heart thumping.
At double the pay, on salary instead of hourly, amazing benefits, and more paid time off than I’d probably ever need, it was a no-brainer. I took the promotion and enjoyed a very light workload, comparatively. Instead of back-breaking masses of contracts and the noise of the pit, I was encumbered by a spiral notepad and an android tablet. The only noise assailing my ears was the clamor of the wait staff at posh restaurants when John entertained clients.
My relationship with John had quickly grown intimate, but professional. After the first week, when I caught him staring at my ass, I verbally teased him about sexual harassment, for which he profusely apologized.
“I’m so sorry,” he stammered. “I don’t mean to be creepy, but you’re so sexy, and you move like a cat. I just can’t help but look.”
Arching my sinewy body over my huge desk and clawing the air, I purred, “you mean a she-panther, don’t you, John.” His face got red, and he was extremely nervous. “So long as looking is all you do, no need to hide it.”
After that, I spent a large sum on professional but incredibly sexy office attire. Sometimes, as a treat for my boss, I’d wear a garter belt and stockings, giving him the occasional peek of stocking tops.
With my help, John’s department, the pit, began running more smoothly and profits quickly soared. This garnered the attention of the division heads, and a junior vice president, David Carlyle, left his nest on the tenth floor to congratulate my boss on his improvement. It just so happened to be a day I’d dressed to tease.
I was perched on his office chair with my notebook in hand. One stocking-clad leg was bent under the other, giving just a hint of stocking top and garter, my high-heeled pump dangling off my nylon-covered toes. I’d worn a white silk blouse that was thin enough to hint at my matching, black brassiere, and although John couldn’t see up my skirt far enough, my silk panties matched.
My outerwear consisted of a matching pencil skirt and a sexy blazer in a thatch pattern. The skirt was a sharp pencil skirt that was just above mid-thigh. I was slowly, teasingly changing position just to let my skirt ride up. That’s when the vice president burst into the office, unannounced.
“John-boy,” he boomed out. “I came down to see the wizardry you’ve been pulling off, firsthand.”
Mr. Carlyle was the youngest VP in the company. Although he was just a junior president, he was known for being personable and cheery, and all the women in the secretarial pool gushed over him. His light blond hair was cut short and spiky, his face was strong, handsome, and symmetrical, and his designer, tapered shirt showed off an extremely well-formed torso, his biceps bulging under the expensive fabric as he reached out to shake my boss’s hand.
