Monday, June 22, 2015

My Little Chickadee

Mr. Crowe came to the doorway of his private study. "Miss Finch. I need you to take dictation."

He returned to his desk and waited. Miss Finch appeared promptly, as always, and took her accustomed chair before the desk. She was covered from throat to ankles in a wool sweater and long skirt. She made sure he was eyeing the skirt before she crossed her long, skinny legs. Five-inch stiletto heels peeked out from beneath the skirt's ruffled edges.

Mr. Crowe swallowed carefully. "Aren't you hot in all those clothes?"

"I'm quite comfortable, sir." She looked at him blandly over the wire binding of her steno pad. She held a feathery quill pen. She fluttered the feather against her cheek, her eyes intent upon him.

"Take a letter, Miss Finch."

"Yes, sir." She sat with quill poised over pad.

"Dear Miss Finch: That sweater you're wearing is much too bulky. Please remove it at once."

Without batting an eye Miss Finch stood and pulled the sweater over her head. She draped it over the back of her chair. She was wearing a strip of lace across her breasts. Her nipples poked aggressively at the fabric.

Miss Finch took her seat. Her skirt rode up her thigh. Those heels were calf-high boots, and genuine leather.

"I don't want you tripping over that skirt, either," he said. "Take it off."

She rose again and unwrapped the skirt. A similar scrap of black lace covered her bird's-nest. He could see no trace of hair. "Miss Finch, did you get a Brazilian wax?"

"On my day off, sir."

"You charged it to the company?"

She shrugged.

"It's against company policy to charge such things to the company. You will have to be reprimanded. Come here and bend over my desk."

Miss Finch did as instructed. Mr. Crowe peeled her panties away from the flat little mounds of her ass. He brushed them with the feather end of the quill while he debated: spank or tickle?

Her giggles weren't helping matters any.

"C'mon, Pru," he muttered. "Stay in character. I'm having a hard enough time keeping it together without you starting in on a giggle fit."

"Sorry." She winked at her husband. "Schnookibutz."

"That's it." He smacked her bottom soundly. She yelped. "Now we've got twenty minutes before I have to drive out to the construction site. How much of the script do we need to skip?"

"We're not skipping this." She reached around and snatched the quill out of his hand. "I've got plans for this."

He shook his head, grinning. "They told me when I married you warblers were wild in the sack."

"They told me crows had huge tailfeathers."

"That's magpies. If you try to claim bait and switch again—"

"Speaking of switch … " She pulled him down to the rug and positioned herself on top. For a little bird she could be tough as an ox when it mattered. Their love life mattered to her. A lot. "If we've only got twenty minutes, I'd better take the reins. You'll spend half the time getting my bra off."

"That's a bra? I thought it was duct tape."

"That's tonight." She tore open his shirt and buried her fingers in the dark curly hairs of his chest. "Have I ever sung you the mating song of the purple finch?"

"You mean the one that ends with that shriek when I—"

"That's the one. Pucker up, sweetie." She bent over him and went to work.


Pat C. said...

And that wraps up my series of "Classic Comedies from the '40s." Unless I come up with something for "I'm No Angel" or "She Done Him Wrong." Or "The Bank Dick," which conjures up all kinds of interesting mental images. Movies were dirty in those days.

Savanna Kougar said...

Omy, those finch shifters are demanding, aren't they... tweet-tweet, darling, time to find my twot, and make her happy.

Okay then, THE BANK DICK sounds rather intriguing. ~grinz~