The moment your eyes land on her, you know you’re not in the presence of any ordinary latex secretary. No, this vision, draped in cream and wrapped in glossy scarlet, looks like she was dressed by a deviant angel with a typewriter fetish. That latex secretary blouse hugs her like a soft-spoken secret, tight, tailored, yet whispering wild promises with every red button perfectly lined like kisses left in a row, each one like a polished cherry placed with deliberate tease. Buttoned just enough to leave things to the imagination, but not so much as to be modest, the blouse looks like it was designed in a dream and sealed in seduction.
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And oh, that mini-skirt… sharp and angular like a commandment written in gloss, a flash of polished red that barely counts as cover. It flares like a provocation. Her legs, dipped in red latex stockings that gleam like candy apples under office lights, stretch endlessly beneath her. How do they even look that smooth? Like they were made for sins scribbled after hours on cream-colored stationery.
Is this what happens when you fall asleep at your desk and start dreaming in high-gloss? Because I swear, if this latex secretary walked into my office, I’d forget how to spell my own name. There she is, perched so casually on the edge of the desk, holding her glasses like she’s deciding whether to correct your grammar… or your behavior. That brown hair, luxurious waves sculpted into old-Hollywood glamour, frames her face with such perfection it’s almost cruel. And those lips, painted redder than your thoughts, curled like she knows exactly what you’re thinking. Does she?
You can feel it, can’t you? That shift in power? She may look like a secretary, but don’t let that blouse fool you! She’s running this fantasy, and every click of her red high heels is another page turned in your undoing, because they make a statement even in silence.
Would you even be able to get a word out if she leaned closer and asked for your report? Or would you stammer like a schoolboy while her scent of latex and lipstick wrapped around your senses like perfume laced with mischief?
And come on, tell me, how many of you would let her tie your wrists with her own stockings just for the chance to hear her say, “You missed your deadline, darling…”?
She’s the kind of latex secretary who doesn’t take dictation, but she gives it, bending rules like she is bending hearts. A walking contradiction: part vintage charm, part polished predator. You could beg her for mercy, but you’d secretly hope she ignores it. And with that latex outfit clinging to her like a secret, she looks like the kind of woman who could make you confess with just one look.
So, what would you do if this latex secretary slid into your office, with that fierce gaze that seems to read every guilty thought in your mind? Would you dare to flirt? Or would you let her take total control?
Let me know in the comments and don’t be shy! We’re all daydreaming at our desks anyway.
Shiny hugs and love,
Diana
How would you react to this?
