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"Stocking Tales": Office Submission

by silkstockingslover 10/24/12

Summary: Sexy submissive MILF does WHATEVER it takes to get the job.

Note 1: A great thank you goes to Vanessa for modeling for the photos (I pray I am as beautiful as you in ten years).

Note 2: Another great thanks to the photographer Richard who took the pictures and created the ambience.

Note 3: Thanks to Mab7991 for his editing this story and LaRacasse for plot suggestions.

*

Forty-two....

Forty-fucking-two....

Forty-two and going through empty nest syndrome. My twenty-one-year-old son was in Europe backpacking to, as he said in his own words, 'Find himself'. While my eighteen-year-old daughter recently graduated from high school and having received a full scholarship to Berkeley, had moved clear across the country to California to attend school there.

Forty-two and single.

Forty-two and alone.

Forty-two and feeling like a teenager: insecure and wanting.

Forty-two and the last things to pleasure me were toys and sadly, craving a deep fucking, a very lengthy cucumber.

Forty-two and I had not been with a man intimately in over five years...not since my husband Alan died in a car accident (yes, I dated a few men, some even good guys, but I always compared them to my deceased husband and always felt I was betraying his memory by bringing a man home to meet my children or sleeping with them).

Forty-two and lost. In retrospect, I was the poster woman for stay-at-home moms. I was heavily involved with my children's lives and in many ways lived vicariously through them (especially after Alan passed). I was a chauffeur, I was a cook, I was a party planner, I was a shoulder to cry on, I was a parent volunteer and I eventually was PTA Chair. So when all those duties, all those roles disappeared, I really didn't know what to do. My life was my children and now that my life was my own I had no idea what to do.

Forty-two and broke. The money from Alan's life insurance policy kept us ok for awhile, the house is paid for and so forth, but the extra money was gone and I needed a job, something I had never had before (Alan believed in being the man of the house and I the stay at home housewife).

Forty-two and qualified to do everything and nothing.

Forty-two...

.....

What I learned after a month of job searching was I was qualified for absolutely nothing. Apparently over twenty years of raising children did not count as experience on a resume and even though I had planned a plethora of big events (graduation, family carnivals and an abundance of fundraisers), the job market didn't care. Although I had many transferable skills, prospective employers didn't see parenting as equivalent to, as they called it, 'real life' experience.

By the time of my monthly girl's night out arrived, I was frustrated and more than a little stressed.

As we drank wine at a candle party, I whined about all my unemployment problems finishing with, "And in conclusion it seems I am unemployable. Too old to be worth training and way too young to be thinking pension...I am only forty-two for Christ sake."

Bella, A friend of a friend, and the youngest and newest addition to our group, said, "Not sure you are interested, but our firm is hiring a temporary secretary, as Carolyn is going on maternity leave."

"Really?" I asked, feeling a glimmer of hope.

"I can put in a good word for you," she added.

"Please do," I said, excited about the opportunity.

"I can even give you tips on what to wear," she added, "Mr. Jackson is very particular." Her tone playful yet for some reason seemingly ominous.

"How so?" I asked,

"He is a leg man," Bella explained, squeezing my leg. "So dress professional, yet sexy professional."

"Sexy professional?" I questioned.

"Yes, always wear a skirt, and always wear nylons," she explained, before adding, "sexy, but professional."

"Oh," was all I said as I wondered what I had that would be both sexy and professional.

.....

Two weeks later, I had an interview and I dressed to impress. I bought an outfit almost indescribable: a black blazer blouse. I didn't know such a thing existed, but it was definitely sexy and yet oddly professional. A matching black skirt, and black heels tailored the look perfectly.

To finish the look I did what I always did, ever since I met my husband, I dressed sexy underneath my conservative attire. Whether it be a PTA meeting, supervising a dance, out for supper, or just hosting friends, I would wear a sexy bra and thigh high stockings and nothing else. I loved the thrill of going commando, of no one knowing my sexy secret, no one knowing that underneath the conservative dress, the safe make-up and sweet smile, was a slutty woman who had been utterly obedient and submissive sexually to her husband. And even after his death, I continued to go about sans underwear, except when Aunt Ruby paid her monthly visit and all my bras were bought at an expensive lingerie shop. Lastly, I didn't even own a pair of pantyhose and hadn't in years, decades even, only wearing thigh high stockings for, as Alan called it, 'easy access to my cunt'. He insisted on calling my special place a cunt and not the less nasty pussy or the politically correct vagina...it was always a cunt. A shiver went up my spine as I fondly recalled my many naughty submissive encounters with Alan.

So underneath my sexy, unique and professional outfit, I went commando as usual, wore matching black thigh highs and a fun, sexy, naughty black bra.

I wore my brown hair up and my make-up hid the few facial blemishes that come with age. Attempting for the typical secretary look I had my glasses on, even though I usually wear contacts.

Truth be told for forty-two, I am still in great shape and get my fair amount of looks and second looks from boys and men. Looking in the mirror, I decided I had perfectly perfected the sexy, but professional look.

.....

I arrived early as interview edict dictates and waited forty minutes, twenty-five past the scheduled interview time, also seemingly part of standard interview expectations based on my past month experience.

Finally, the secretary, who was so big I thought she might go into labor at any second, announced, "Mr. Jackson will see you now."

"Thank you," I replied, standing up and preparing myself for another potential rejection.

Building my confidence, the one that was strong and never wavered when I was PTA chair or running any number of complex events; the confidence that had slowly faltered rejection after rejection.

"Please take a seat," he offered, offering the chair across from his desk.

I froze in my tracks. His strong, husky, I am in control voice was eerily similar to my deceased husband.

Suddenly rattled, I stammered, "T-t-thank you, Mr. Jackson," and took my seat, crossing my legs. I noticed also, unlike other potential employers, he made no effort to get up and greet me. Again, like my deceased husband, it was clear who was in charge.

I should have known where this may be leading by his first words, but I was so caught up in making a good impression and slightly distracted by just how much he reminded me of Alan, I had trouble focusing.

"So, Amanda," he opened, also the first to use my first name in an interview, "Bella was dead on, you are the complete package."

I caught on instantly this was a compliment and I just as instantly understood that flirtation would be an effective strategy. I replied, demurely, trying to match the sexy, yet professional, ensemble, "Well, thank you. You seem to have the complete package too."

As soon as I said it I wished I could take it back, the sexual innuendo so obvious that I now looked like a slut using my sexual wiles to get the job, but a few things had me rattled and not thinking straight. Besides his strong, powerful voice and his clearly in charge demeanor, he was a sexy older man and I have always had a thing for sexy older men. Alan had been nine years older than me and I pegged Mr. Jackson to have about the same extra life experience as Alan had on me.

He had no reaction at all to my comment. He asked, "So I see you have no actual business experience."

I noticed his eyes continually glance towards my stocking-clad legs and I knew I could use my sexuality to my advantage: sexy, not slutty, flirty not obvious. I defended, "No I don't as a secretary but as PTA chair for three years I ran huge events and...."

"Stop there, Amanda," he interrupted, "Based on your volunteer work, I think you are more than experienced enough to handle the menial tasks of the job."

A sigh of relief warmed me at the thought of being judged based on my extensive volunteer work and not my choice to not get a 9 to 5 job. "Thank you, Mr. Jackson."

"It is the intensity of the job that may be an issue," he stated, my brief bubble of hope already about to burst.

I noticed his constant glimpses at my heels and wondered if he was a foot guy like my husband had been. I decided to test my theory, my dangling my heel from my toes of the foot that was crossed over the other.

As expected, his gaze went to the tangling heel as I asked, "Intensity?"

"Yes, my secretary is on call twenty-four, seven, seven days a week," he informed me, returning his gaze to my eyes.

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