Boss Discovers Sissy's Thong Temptation

I never thought my little secret would unravel like this, but God, do I crave the thrill of confessing it all now. I'm Jamie, the quiet 22-year-old intern at Harlan & Associates, the kind of guy—or girl, depending on the day—who blends into the office wallpaper. Five-foot-six, slim as a whisper, with soft features and a shy smile that hides the fire underneath. By day, I wear crisp button-downs and slacks like every other drone in the corporate hive. But underneath? That's where my true self lives: a skimpy pink thong, the kind that hugs my smooth-shaven cheeks and cradles my little clitlette like a naughty promise. It's my armor, my rebellion, making me feel deliciously feminine amid the suits and ties. I slipped one on that Monday morning, the lace riding up just right, a secret buzz against my skin as I hustled into the office.

The break room was my undoing. I'd just finished a killer gym session before work—keeps this sissy body toned and perky—and my gym bag was stuffed with sweaty clothes. Rushing for my third coffee of the day, I swung the bag too wildly. It hit the counter, zipper burst open, and out tumbled my prize: the hot pink thong I'd changed out of, still damp from my workout, landing right at the feet of Mr. Harlan himself.

Time froze. Mr. Harlan—tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair, piercing blue eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass. Stern as hell, the kind of boss who makes grown men stammer, but fuck, he's handsome in that authoritative, daddy way. He was mid-sip from his mug when it happened, his gaze dropping to the thong like a predator spotting prey. The lacy thing lay there, innocent and incriminating, its thin strap screaming "sissy slut" in the fluorescent light. My face burned crimson. I dropped to my knees, fumbling to snatch it up, but his polished shoe pinned it gently to the floor.

"Jamie," he rumbled, voice low and gravelly, eyes lingering—hungrily—on the pink fabric, then flicking up to meet mine. Electric tension crackled between us; I could feel his stare peeling back my layers, seeing right through to the femme heart pounding in my chest. "Care to explain this... wardrobe malfunction?"

"I-I'm so sorry, Mr. Harlan," I stammered, blushing so hard my ears rang, hands trembling as I stayed on my knees like a supplicant. "It was an accident. Please, don't fire me. It's just... something personal." My voice was a whisper, but inside, a wicked spark ignited. His eyes didn't leave the thong; they devoured it, and I swear I saw his slacks twitch.

He lifted his foot, letting me grab it, but instead of handing it back, he crouched down, close enough that I smelled his cologne—musky, commanding. "Personal, huh? Get up. My office. Now." No anger, just that hungry edge. My clitlette stirred traitorously in my fresh thong as I obeyed, bag clutched like a lifeline, following him down the hall with every coworker oblivious to the storm brewing.

His private office was a fortress: floor-to-ceiling windows with blinds that snapped shut as he locked the door with a decisive click. The pretense hit immediately. "Sit," he said, but I hovered, heart hammering. He leaned against his massive oak desk, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes raking me over. "That thong in the break room... you wear things like that? Under your suit?"

I nodded, biting my lip, the confession spilling out in a rush because his gaze made me bold. "Y-yes, sir. Every day. It makes me feel... pretty. Feminine. I'm... I'm a sissy, Mr. Harlan. Have been since I was 18. Please don't judge me."

His laugh was dark, approving, sending shivers down my spine. "Judge you? Jamie, I've been fantasizing about sissies like you for years. Soft, obedient little things begging to be used." He stepped closer, towering over me, his hand lifting my chin. "Show me. Lift your shirt. Model it for your boss."

Tension exploded like fireworks in my veins. Trembling with need, I unbuttoned my shirt, letting it fall open to reveal the matching pink thong—skimpy, sheer, my smooth legs leading up to the lace framing my tiny bulge. I turned, arching my back, wiggling my perky ass for him. "Like this, sir?" My voice was breathy, slutty already.

"Fuck, yes," he growled, closing the distance. His big hands groped my ass cheeks, squeezing the flesh spilling over the thong's edges, then sliding forward to cup my growing clitlette through the damp fabric. I gasped, hips bucking into his palm as he stroked me firmly, thumb circling the tip. "So hard for Daddy already. Such a eager sissy slut."