Chapter 1
It was a Wednesday – middle of the week in the middle of the
month that fell in the middle of a British summer, and surprisingly
it wasn’t raining outside – the weather was actually quite fine.
But the vagaries of the London climate were irrelevant to Emily
Johnson – personal assistant to Donald Harper, the man in charge of
Infotron, a powerhouse in the field of global telecommunications.
Whilst most of the staff had left for the day, Emily had been
detained up on the top floor of one of the swankiest office blocks
the capital boasted, where the temperature was kept at a constant
twenty-two degrees of air-conditioned comfort.
Donald was heading off to the States at short notice and Emily
needed to work late to ensure everything was ready for him. It was
well after seven in the evening when she was finally happy that it
had all been taken care of and that the trip would run smoothly as
always. Tired, but pleased with her efforts, Emily made a quick
call to her husband, Les, who worked from home as a free-lance
writer when his wife afforded him the chance. Emily stressed how
exhausted she was, the usual signal for Les to make sure he had the
flat neat and tidy by the time she arrived home, and that there’d
be a bottle of white wine chilling in the fridge. It went without
saying that Les would have dinner on the table once Emily had
showered; then later he would offer to massage her feet as she
relax and sipped her wine. It all sounded rather pleasant – nothing
less than Emily felt she deserved.
Having filed everything away and made sure the office was
left organised, Emily collected her Chanel bag, which like every
other label Mrs. Johnson paraded, was actually the real deal. She
headed to the washroom to check her appearance – something which
Emily did regularly throughout the day to make certain she always
looked immaculately fresh. Nothing was really needed, but the lips
were still touched up to ensure they were full and glossy, and her
expensively cut ash-blonde hair was shaken and ruffled to give it
that ‘I never bother with it’ look. The rest she deemed fine having taken a few
minutes to admire the new ensemble she was wearing. Be it from the
front, the rear, whatever the angle, Emily reckoned it was perfect
for the office – the balance just right between professional
decorum and sensuous femininity. There was a strand of pearls that
was a birthday present from her parents, above a white silk top
that showed the necklace off along with some creamy flesh. The top
hinted at the swell of her ever so fine breasts but revealed
nothing of her cleavage, which was stunning underneath, but not
something to be flaunted during working hours. And she really liked
the new charcoal coloured suit, with a short-sleeved bolero jacket
that emphasised her trim waist and generous bust. It was matched by
a tight fitting charcoal skirt that stopped a couple of inches
short of her knees and did a great job for her ass – Emily’s best
feature, and that’s high praise indeed, given the quality of the
competition elsewhere on her body!
Happy with what she saw, Emily applied a spray of perfume
behind both ears and then Mrs. Johnson was ready to go.
In a walk that was second nature, having practiced it
endlessly as a young girl, Emily sashayed down the corridor like a
fashion model. She was in a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes with three
inch heels, which Emily deemed to be just right – enough to
lengthen her already long shapely legs without making her look like
a high class tart. Passing the main demonstration room, she saw a
couple of salesmen preparing for a presentation the following day.
A nod was given and a curt little smile. The guys looked pleased
that she had noticed them. Emily knew they’d be hoping she would
mention their late presence to Donald, which was something she
might do, or then again she might not – it was an example of her
delicate use of power – and where power was concerned,
It was a Wednesday – middle of the week in the middle of the
month that fell in the middle of a British summer, and surprisingly
it wasn’t raining outside – the weather was actually quite fine.
But the vagaries of the London climate were irrelevant to Emily
Johnson – personal assistant to Donald Harper, the man in charge of
Infotron, a powerhouse in the field of global telecommunications.
Whilst most of the staff had left for the day, Emily had been
detained up on the top floor of one of the swankiest office blocks
the capital boasted, where the temperature was kept at a constant
twenty-two degrees of air-conditioned comfort.
Donald was heading off to the States at short notice and Emily
needed to work late to ensure everything was ready for him. It was
well after seven in the evening when she was finally happy that it
had all been taken care of and that the trip would run smoothly as
always. Tired, but pleased with her efforts, Emily made a quick
call to her husband, Les, who worked from home as a free-lance
writer when his wife afforded him the chance. Emily stressed how
exhausted she was, the usual signal for Les to make sure he had the
flat neat and tidy by the time she arrived home, and that there’d
be a bottle of white wine chilling in the fridge. It went without
saying that Les would have dinner on the table once Emily had
showered; then later he would offer to massage her feet as she
relax and sipped her wine. It all sounded rather pleasant – nothing
less than Emily felt she deserved.
Having filed everything away and made sure the office was
left organised, Emily collected her Chanel bag, which like every
other label Mrs. Johnson paraded, was actually the real deal. She
headed to the washroom to check her appearance – something which
Emily did regularly throughout the day to make certain she always
looked immaculately fresh. Nothing was really needed, but the lips
were still touched up to ensure they were full and glossy, and her
expensively cut ash-blonde hair was shaken and ruffled to give it
that ‘I never bother with it’ look. The rest she deemed fine having taken a few
minutes to admire the new ensemble she was wearing. Be it from the
front, the rear, whatever the angle, Emily reckoned it was perfect
for the office – the balance just right between professional
decorum and sensuous femininity. There was a strand of pearls that
was a birthday present from her parents, above a white silk top
that showed the necklace off along with some creamy flesh. The top
hinted at the swell of her ever so fine breasts but revealed
nothing of her cleavage, which was stunning underneath, but not
something to be flaunted during working hours. And she really liked
the new charcoal coloured suit, with a short-sleeved bolero jacket
that emphasised her trim waist and generous bust. It was matched by
a tight fitting charcoal skirt that stopped a couple of inches
short of her knees and did a great job for her ass – Emily’s best
feature, and that’s high praise indeed, given the quality of the
competition elsewhere on her body!
Happy with what she saw, Emily applied a spray of perfume
behind both ears and then Mrs. Johnson was ready to go.
In a walk that was second nature, having practiced it
endlessly as a young girl, Emily sashayed down the corridor like a
fashion model. She was in a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes with three
inch heels, which Emily deemed to be just right – enough to
lengthen her already long shapely legs without making her look like
a high class tart. Passing the main demonstration room, she saw a
couple of salesmen preparing for a presentation the following day.
A nod was given and a curt little smile. The guys looked pleased
that she had noticed them. Emily knew they’d be hoping she would
mention their late presence to Donald, which was something she
might do, or then again she might not – it was an example of her
delicate use of power – and where power was concerned,
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