If Ben had any ForLit left in his bottle, he would’ve probably spit it out in surprise. So, he was glad he had already finished, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t shocked.
“P-Pardon?”
“A footrest, Benjamin. Have you ever used your body to, in the spirit of… teamwork… provide relaxation and comfort for an individual’s legs and feet?”
“I… I mean, I know what footrest means, but I, uh…” he meandered verbally. What could possibly have been the correct answer to such a bizarre posing? Yet already Ben was questioning his reality, simply from the seriousness with which the woman asked. Was this a common trend she was talking about, and it just went right over his head, culturally?
“Yes or no, please, Benjamin. My time is valuable.” The woman’s smile spread ever-wider as her voice drew lower.
“No,” he gulped.
“I see. Well, I suppose not everything about this “human side” collaboration campaign can be perfect from the outset. But I’m sure you’ll pick up the skills.”
“I’m… sorry?”
“The marketing campaign, Benjamin. Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said?”
“Well… I mean, yes, I have, ma’am… Ms. Hoshoku, sorry, sorry… but-”
“This is all about teamwork,” Ms. Hoshoku interrupted softly. “Aren’t you a team player, Benjamin?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t you like to see yourself rise higher through the ranks of Blend as it regrows in the image of myself and ForLit?”
Herself and ForLit? What about him?
“Y-Yes.”
“Then come around to my side of the desk, and I’ll be the judge of that.”
Ben had no idea what earthly force was in control of his puppeteered muscles now as he rose creakily from his chair, wandered around the desk, and stood before Ms. Hoshoku. Even while she stayed sitting down, their seven-inch height difference made it such that she was just about eye-level with the meager man.
“Go ahead and climb under my desk. Right under here,” the woman commanded in a gentle whisper. Her intimidatingly lengthy index finger extended under the desk, where, Ben realized, there was quite a bit more room than he’d have guessed from the other side.
“Okay… um…” he mumbled, lowering himself to his hands and knees. He couldn’t help but let his sight linger on the now up-close visage of the woman’s nude-nyloned legs, bulging with calf muscle and just as smooth as the rest of her. She was obviously a runner, perhaps even a marathoner. Maybe that was what helped compel him to obey without much of a second thought. The promise of being near those legs.
Her wide, white hands were on his shoulders again, her fingers lithely digging into his back through the fabric of his jacket. Those nails were talons. Almost a mind meld; she must’ve had a grip on a pressure point nerve. He crouched beneath the desk and settled into a seated position.
“Now hold still, Benjamin.”
The woman’s shoes were pried off at the heels, freeing her feet from their prisons. In no time, Ben realized that Ms. Hoshoku’s legs were coming for him, just as her earlier question suggested. Somehow, part of him still assumed this was a joke up to now. Some kind of corporate hazing as they groomed the lowers for ascension.
But nope. The six-foot-one woman in her smart suit and thigh-clenched nylons was simply using her employee as a literal footstool.
The heels of her heavy feet, close to the length of Ben’s entire forearm, came to rest comfortably in his lap. The damp fabric of her stockings between her toes tweaked at his stomach, the ball of her foot testing the flimsy strength of his abdomen. Her other foot found its way directly between his legs, stretched from one thigh to the other, the nyloned sole resting a gnat’s breadth above his still-obvious pants tent. If she lowered her foot another few millimeters, her instep would be squashing down on his erection.
The aroma of green tea wafted from the fabric of her clothes, not to mention latent night sweat and the sweet precursor to warm body odor.
Ben squeezed the air inside his lungs. He almost popped a blood vessel with the focus of diverting attention from the scenario to prevent uncomfortable information from coming out any further. She already knew he found her attractive and intimidating; there was no reason to add sexual harassment to the list of offenses as well.
Ms. Hoshoku didn’t seem to have any further requests. She only wanted him to be an inanimate object for her legs to rest upon.
He wasn’t sure where to put his hands. Her calves and thighs crossed together directly in his line of sight, as the woman’s lower half now filled his limited vision from beneath the metallic cave of the desk. However, it seemed beyond questioning to consider actually wrapping his narrow palms around the woman’s meaty thighs and softly undulating calves, no matter how tempting. It was hard, too, to forget that within arm’s reach, bearing the weight of her increasingly tall body, was that irresistible ass of hers, juicy and aerodynamically plumped by regular exercise.
What if she’d asked him to be a chair, and not a footrest? Would he have even hesitated? Ben, unfortunately, had an answer to that, but didn’t dare admit it to himself.
“Thank you for your contribution to the advancement of this company,” Ms. Hoshoku said after at least half an hour had gone by. Ben was too terrified to inch a muscle in any direction until she spoke, having endured the woman’s feet idly shifting about with his shirt and coming dangerously close to brushing his erection. “I’m glad to see you are, indeed, a team player, just as you said. Blend thanks you, and so do I. You may feel free to come out now.”
Ben did so, feeling like a zombie as he was guided back to the door and it closed behind him without another word. Palms sweating, erection only just now wilting, he made his way for the elevator in isolation.
What the hell was happening to him?