The Under-Desk Affair

"Max, I'm so itchy down there. Could you use your stick to scratch it for me?"

Beneath the desk, my boss's daughter was perched on my lap, her round little bottom in the air.

I was in the middle of a project meeting with my team, a whole group of them standing in front of my desk.

She was driving me crazy. My hardness was itching and swelling by the second. I was about to lose it.

My name is Max Niemann. Today, our company landed a major project. To make sure everything went smoothly, I called my team into my office for a meeting.

Just as we reached a critical point, I felt something strange down below.

I looked down—and there Jean Garwell, my boss's daughter.

I had no idea when she'd crawled under my desk. She'd already unzipped my pants and slipped her hand inside.

So that's where she'd disappeared to.

Earlier today, my boss had to go on a business trip for the project and entrusted her daughter to my care.

Jean had been in my office just a moment ago. Then I stepped out to call everyone in for the meeting, and when I came back, she was gone. Turns out she'd hidden herself under my desk.

If my boss ever found out, I could kiss this job goodbye.

Jean was fresh and delicate, barely eighteen, with a figure that had developed to absolute perfection. She wore a white tube top that left half of each full breast exposed, and every step she took set them swaying like ripples on water.

It stirred me up just looking at her, but out of respect for her father, I'd kept my distance—look, but don't touch.

Now she was crouched between my legs, and with me looking down from above, I had a perfect view of those two round, plump globes.

They were so impossibly young and supple. I'd never seen such luscious, ripe curves. They were practically bursting from the pressure of my thighs.

When she saw me staring down at her, she made a goofy face. Two little canines flashed in a silly, sweet grin—adorable as hell.

I narrowed my eyes at her and whispered, "What are you doing in there? Get out!"

But instead of listening, she only pushed further. Her soft little hand slipped inside.

A wave of unbearable tingling shot through me. I curled my toes hard into the floor, every muscle tensed against the deep, bone-tickling itch. I fought to keep my body from giving anything away—there were too many people watching.

"Max, what's with this lump here? Let me rub it for you," she said, her face the picture of innocence.

Her expression was both alluring and pure, and I wanted nothing more than to throw her onto the desk right then and there.

But with the whole team waiting for me to lead the meeting, I forced the urge down. "Stop it. Get out."

The moment I said that, my employees just stared at me, confused.

"Mr. Niemann, aren't we having a meeting? Why are you telling us to get out?"

They'd misunderstood me, but there was no way to explain.

I cleared my throat. "Ahem. That's not what I meant. Let's continue."

But Jean thought I was talking to her.

"You want me to continue, Max? My rubbing feels good, doesn't it? I do this to myself all the time. Every time, it makes me feel all tingly down there."

She spread her palm and gripped my shaft. Instantly, the heat inside me surged.

"Oh? Why is there a stick here? This is so much fun."

Her hand was so soft, so tender. It felt like electricity racing through me. My body trembled, beyond my control.

My employees noticed something off and asked with concern, "Mr. Niemann, are you alright? Not feeling well?"

I was flushed red from what Jean was doing, my blood boiling. But I couldn't let them catch on. So I said to my team, "I'm fine, actually. Feeling pretty good."

And once again, Jean misunderstood. Her grip grew tighter, even through my underwear, clutching me firmly.

"This feels good, doesn't it?" she giggled, wrapping both hands around and gently twisting.

The sensation of being handled and stroked by her nearly made me cry out. I strained every muscle to stay still, forcing myself to carry on with the meeting as if nothing were wrong.