Misc. Erotica The New Receptionist: Mrs. Chaitali Ghosh's 'Orientation' at the new office

[Mohit.Kumar]

The intercom buzzed, sharp and sudden. Chaitali jumped, knocking her knee against the desk drawer. Pain shot up her leg. "Mrs. Ghosh," Khanna’s smooth voice flowed through the speaker, devoid of the basement’s chill, yet carrying an undeniable command. "Kindly report to my office. Immediately. We need to discuss the… incident downstairs." The pause before "incident" was deliberate, heavy. Her stomach clenched. Was this dismissal? Reprimand? The brokers’ leering faces flashed behind her eyelids – Vikram’s smirk, Deepak’s possessive grip, Arjun’s cold appraisal. She smoothed her shirt again, fingers catching on a loose thread where a button had strained. Taking a shaky breath that made her breasts push against the damp fabric, she stood, her thighs sticking uncomfortably together inside the tight trousers.

Khanna’s office was a world away from the basement’s grime – cool air scented faintly of leather and expensive cologne. He sat behind a vast mahogany desk, sunlight glinting off his Rolex as he gestured languidly toward the plush visitor’s chair. "Sit, Mrs. Ghosh." His gaze swept over her, lingering on the faint sweat stains darkening her armpits, the way her bun had loosened further, tendrils clinging to her damp neck. "I trust you’ve recovered from that unfortunate… orientation?" He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Those brokers. Unruly elements. A regrettable lapse in oversight." His tone was silk over steel. "But tell me, Chaitali – may I call you Chaitali? – how did you feel during their… attentions?" His eyes, dark and unnervingly focused, locked onto hers. "Resilience is crucial here. Did you find yourself… adapting?" A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. "Or merely enduring?"

Chaitali shifted, the leather seat groaning beneath her weight. Her damp trousers clung to her thighs, the seam digging into the soft flesh where her cotton panties bunched. "Sir, they… they touched…" she stammered, her Bengali accent thickening with distress. Khanna waved a dismissive hand. "Touch is subjective. Pressure points? Proprioceptive feedback? Vital for receptionists managing… difficult clients." He rose smoothly, circling the desk. His polished Oxfords stopped inches from her sensible heels. "Their methods were crude, I grant you." His knuckle brushed the top button of her shirt – the one she’d refastened with trembling fingers. "But the intent…" His breath, warm and smelling faintly of mint, washed over her cheek. "Was to test your mettle. Your capacity." His fingertip traced the strained fabric above her breastbone, pressing lightly. "Did you bend? Or did you… yield?" The question hung, thick and suffocating.

Khanna returned to his seat, steepling his fingers again. "Fieldwork," he announced crisply. "The true crucible. Vikram Sharma handles our premium rural listings." He tapped a file. "You’ll accompany him tomorrow. Observational training." Chaitali blinked. Vikram? The broker whose smirk felt like crawling insects on her skin. "Sir, reception duties…" Khanna cut her off. "Broaden your horizons, Mrs. Ghosh. Gurgaon’s outskirts. A farmhouse acquisition near Sohna." He slid the file across the desk. "Vikram will brief you. Consider it… immersion therapy." His gaze dropped pointedly to her lap, where her clenched fists pressed into the soft flesh above her knees. "Wear sensible shoes. The terrain is… uneven." The dismissal was implicit. Chaitali stood, the movement pulling her trousers tighter across her hips. As she turned, Khanna added softly, "Vikram appreciates initiative. Show." The door clicked shut behind her. Khanna leaned back, loosening his tie another fraction, his gaze lingering on the faint imprint her body had left on the leather chair.