Three Pink Boxes: An Erotic Story

The morning Melinda found a pink box on her doorstep, inscribed with the name of a lingerie store, a silky black ribbon tied round the center, she guessed it was a gift from Mr. Carr. When she was typing at her desk, he’d stand behind her, his stare so powerful she felt it beneath her clothes. But Jesus, he was her boss! Plus he was freshly divorced from a blonde with the eyes and manners of a saint. Sure, when Melinda had done well, she felt excited by his pleasure, and yes, there were times when she longed for him to grab her, slam her against the filing cabinet and rip off her blouse...but you didn’t have sex with your boss--it just wasn’t right. The very thought shamed her.

"What piece of shit thinks your underwear’s his business?” said her housemate Wendy, as Melinda placed the box on the worktop.
Towel-drying her hair, Wendy smelled of warm baths. “Well, open it!  Let’s see the damage.”

“I think it’s from Mr. Carr,” said Melinda, lifting off the lid.  

“Your boss?” gasped Wendy. “Now that’s deranged.”

Melinda paused staring down at the lingerie--a classic black camisole trimmed with Parisian lace, nestled in creamy tissue. With matching briefs in the same exquisite silk, it was the kind of underwear she’d always longed to own. “It’s actually my size,” she said, checking the label.  
“The sleaze.  You should bloody well report him.”

Melinda bit her lip. She secretly had a crush on her boss, which was strange because all he ever did was tell her off. And why the heck, when he was angry, did she like it so much that it even turned her on?

“But sod it,” said Wendy. “Play innocent with him. That way, you can keep it. It could have come from anyone!”

Melinda raised the camisole, amazed at its lightness. It was different to the white lycra she usually wore. She’d never owned anything so fine, so sheer. As she admired it, she remembered how much she loved lingerie. It made her feel...excited. Not to mention the idea that Mr. Carr had picked this out from a high-class, London boutique, running it through his sturdy hands, picturing her in it.  

“I suppose there’s no harm,” she said, carrying the box to her bedroom, and by the time she’d put it on, it was too late to change her mind. She felt exquisite with that silk against her skin, brushing her breasts, clinging to her sex; and when she’d put her skirt and blouse over the top, and had stepped into her stilettos, there was no going back.

“What’s it like?” asked Wendy, as Melinda emerged from her room.

Melinda flushed, gave a shrug, and strode from the house.


Mr. Carr seemed so angry that day that Melinda decided the lingerie wasn’t from him. Twice, he returned a contract saying she hadn’t laid it out right, when she’d done exactly as he’d said. Alone at reception, he leaned across her, his hands on the desk, his blue eyes ferocious. “Why do you think we pay you?” he asked, leaning in closer. “I gave you the instructions. Now follow them, Miss Davenport.”

Aroused, Melinda crossed her legs and wriggled in her seat, aware of the slippery feel of the silk against her slit. Her boss felt so close, so utterly demanding. At forty, he was ten years older than her--which always made her long to do what he asked, in spite of the fact she so often got things wrong. Christ, how would he tell her off this time? Would he grab her shoulders? Shout right into her face? Or maybe wrench apart her knees and force himself on her? At this last idea, she felt her breathing quicken, felt his glare travel down her body.... Melinda had only ever been with super-shy boys--like Tony who closed the blinds and checked the locks before they screwed, and Derek who wore his shirts buttoned to the throat.

“I’ll correct them, Mr. Carr,” she said. “It won’t take me a sec.”

“Good,” he said. “We want to look like lawyers, not monkeys.” He reached his fingers towards her silk blouse, as if about to unbutton it, then leaned over and whispered, “Are you wearing them, Melinda?”

She touched her hair and said nothing, expecting him to snap.

He cleared his throat. “I’m s-sorry.  I should go.”  With that, he turned from her and Melinda felt terrible. She’d never heard him sound so vulnerable before. To try and make up for it, she reprinted the contract, checking every word.


Throughout the day, Melinda noticed the lingerie was having an effect. When she crossed her legs, she felt the slither of silk, and her breasts, which were usually restricted by a bra, felt live and sensitive beneath the camisole. When she entered Mr. Carr’s office to say she was going to lunch, she thought she might die if he didn’t tell her off. Even the atmosphere made her breathless: the bookshelves lining the walls, the dark colored legal tomes, the faint smell of coffee, his broad oak desk.... *Please*, she thought, as he set down his pen.  *Say I’m not to go*.  She’d have done anything just to wait there in his office. How strange! Surely she shouldn’t actually want to be berated--you should aim to please people, right? Not get them all upset. Resolved, she told him, “I won’t be long.”

Mr. Carr looked up through sad, worn eyes. “Yes, lunch,” he said. “Of course. Take an hour if you like.”

Sitting on her usual park bench with a sandwich, Melinda tried to work through her confusion. In truth, she rather liked it when Mr. Carr was barking orders, towering over her, telling her what to do; but today, she’d seen his softer side. The thought made her drop by the deli on her way home to buy some wafer-thin chocolate--the kind that costs an arm and a leg. This she delivered with his three o’clock coffee, and a folder of invoices she’d printed. She served the dark chocolate on a small, white saucer, and he blinked at it, strangely, without looking up from his desk.  

“What’s this?” He sounded curious, as he prodded the chocolate with his finger. “Melinda, this is luxurious.  Are you sure you want to share it?”

“It’s Venezuelan, sir. The best. And it’s all for you.” Trying to stay bold, she took a deep breath and added, “Don’t they say chocolate’s the food of love?”

He gave her the beginnings of a smile.
She perched on the edge of his desk, her knees close to his. She could feel the lingerie against her flesh, tingling as if alive. “Mr. Carr,” she said, softly. “I’m wearing your gift.  I’ve never had anything so beautiful.”

His eyes flashed. “You’re wearing it?”

She nodded.

“Oh,” he said, on a breath, as if he’d finally shed a weight. He stared down her body.  

“Melinda, I know it’s wrong, but all I can think of is you. If you I need...or...the things I want to...” He loosened his tie, watching her chest, her mouth. If he’d just reach inside her blouse, force his lips onto hers--push her back onto the desk and hitch up her skirt before filling her roughly, and telling her she was his. Oh Christ, the thought of his cock pressing into her, while she was still wearing the silky briefs! The thought of him filling her, over and over, her body slamming with the force of every thrust, and the glossy underwear, so delicate, so fine, against that bone-hard cock of his....  

She reached to undo the top button of her blouse, and he rose to his feet, grabbing her wrist. “This isn’t right,” he gasped.  “We shouldn’t...” But he still pulled her towards him, opening his mouth on hers. Before she knew it, his hand was inside her skirt, sliding up her thigh, and she felt his fingertips touching her through the silk, making her twice as slippery, seeking out her clit. She had to take hold of the desk to steady herself, and again, he was kissing and touching her, his mouth so perfectly wild. They sank together seamlessly, his hands running over her breasts. She’d never been touched intuitively like this--he seemed to understand her wants as clearly as his own.
There was the sound of knocking. The two of them sprang apart, Melinda straightening her blouse, Mr. Carr neatening his brown-grey hair. He cleared his throat, gesturing for Melinda to sit in front of his desk. “Come in,” he called, and in walked Tamara from Accounts. Through her cat-like glasses, she inspected Mr. Carr, then glanced down at Melinda.  

“Um...sir, I’ve got those figures.” She passed him the files.

For Melinda, the magical confidence she’d felt had long gone. Her face was burning, as she mumbled her excuses, and left without the slightest goodbye.


The following day, over breakfast with Wendy, Melinda said she’d avoided Mr. Carr since the lingerie incident. She didn’t mention the kiss and the groping, which seemed private and embarrassing. “He’s probably worried sick,” said Wendy. “Thinks you’ll report him or something.” She shoved the spoon into her cornflakes. “Serves him right. The pushy git.”  
Melinda stared at her untouched toast. Was it possible her housemate was still hurting after her messy break-up? Wendy’s old boyfriend, Harry, had been frighteningly dependent, telling her he couldn’t live without her, then sulking when she wanted to spend time with her friends. Not only had this sapped them of their passion, but it made Wendy feel more like his mother than his flame. Harry wept when she dumped him, grabbing her arm and begging, and Wendy, who believed she’d been a bitch to leave, still hadn’t forgiven herself.

“Mr. Carr’s just very direct,” Melinda explained. “I’m sure he wouldn’t push.”

“Yeah, right,” moaned Wendy. “He’ll probably start buying you even kinkier undies.” Just as Melinda was picturing what form this brazen apparel might take, there was a shuffling noise from outside the front door. “Either we’ve got mice again,” said Wendy, “or some freak just left a thong.”

In a moment, Melinda was at the door, pulling it open and...yes! There was another pink box on the step! She brought it in, closing the door with her hip and the two girls gathered round as Melinda pulled off the ribbon, followed by the lid. This time, he’d bought her a plain balconette bra in wine-red satin, with tiny, matching briefs and a black garter belt. Also, at the base of the box, was a rolled up pair of stockings--finer than any Melinda had worn.

On a white card, the message read, “I’m sorry about yesterday. Wear these to the office with a pair of high heels.”

On the way to work, the train’s vibrations coupled with the clingy briefs proved so arousing that Melinda felt dizzy. The fabric pressed against her sex with every little movement, and when she crossed her legs, her stockings glided over each other, tempting her to touch herself.  She arrived at the office feeling luxurious, but took her seat as usual. By the time Mr. Carr was leaning over her, checking her typing, she’d managed to adopt a cooler demeanor.

“When you’re done,” said Mr. Carr, slamming a file onto her desk, “I need you to photocopy these invoices.” Then he walked away, briskly, shutting himself in his office.  

Keen as ever, Melinda was soon at the photocopier, waiting as it spewed out copies of the minutes Mr. Carr had given her. On the wall, a laminated sign told her what to do in the event of a fire, and the very thought of dangerous heat made her dream of Mr. Carr. Her plan was to knock softly on his door and read his face when he looked up from his work. If he smiled, she’d gently flirt. If he glowered, she’d invent a reason for him to scold her. But as she was waiting by the shuddering copier, she felt a breath on her neck, then a hand on her ass, then fingers undoing the bun in her hair before tracing the arc of her spine.

She arched back, as Mr. Carr put his lips on her ear, her dark hair falling round her shoulders. “Do you have them on, Melinda?”

“Yes, sir.”  

“You’d better not be lying.” And she felt his hand beneath her skirt, gliding up her thigh, pausing round the garter-straps, stroking the tops of her stockings. Christ, how different he’d be to her former lovers, who’d fumbled and gasped for permission! Mr. Carr let out a tiny moan and she felt his hard-on against her buttocks, while the machine spat out its final copy and rumbled to a halt.  

“Oh, Miss Davenport,” he whispered, running his hands over her breasts, cupping them, stroking them so her nipples tingled. “God, I can feel those satiny things I bought you.  You shouldn’t be wearing them!  I’ll have to punish you.” And with that he spanked her three times in quick succession through her layers of skirt and lingerie. She trembled a little, flushing. She’d never been spanked before.  Why did it feel so good? Surely it shouldn’t! After the third strike, he let his hand linger on her buttocks, slowly circling, rubbing her skirt against her briefs.  

She reached back, sliding her hand down his hard-on, massaging until he grabbed her hip; and suddenly he was forcing her against the photocopier, hitching up her skirt and spanking her through her briefs.  Oh, the perfect sting of those broad hands, as the machine whirred beneath her! She was so wet she could feel her moisture dripping from her, making the silk even slipperier than before. What if someone walked in? What if they were caught? Yet when she thought about it, she realized she didn’t care, and this made her giggle, wondering what had come over her.  She found herself thinking, *So what if they sack me? I’m having marvelous sex!*

“Spank me more,” she whispered.  

And he did.

This is how they began, up against the copier, Melinda laid across it, as Mr. Carr took hold of her blouse and ripped it from her. A couple of buttons pinged right off, and she cried out loud, as he wrenched the fabric from her. Then, topless but for her bra, she felt his cock filling her, and found herself growling like a pleasured cat. Over and over he pressed right into her, softly at first, so she had to beg for more; yet every now and then, he’d pull out of her, tell her she was bad, and spank her through the silk.  

Clutching the copier, she’d find herself agreeing. Yes, she’d been bad! Yes, she should pay! Next thing she knew, he’d be in her again, with his hand up the front of her blouse, fucking her with a slow control until she begged for roughness. While her own fingers tensed against the machine, Mr. Carr massaged her through the cups of her bra, rubbing her breast as he grabbed her ass with his other hand.  

“You look incredible,” he told her, biting her neck. “You smell...incredible...”  

As Melinda felt the beginning of the heat deep inside her, he burst into a frenzy, pounding her fiercely, as if he had to give her his every last inch and fill her to the brim.  

“Oh,” she cried out. “Oh fuck me, sir! Oh Mr. Carr.” And he moaned, falling onto her, making the copier lunge against the wall so that the blinding climax that robbed Melinda of all thought, was accompanied by a cracking sound like something breaking open. By the time she’d come to her senses, Mr. Carr was chuckling, pulling gently out of her cunt, then pointing at a hole in the plaster.
“Oops,” he whispered, grinning. “Dear me, we’re reprobates.” He stooped and picked up the missing chunk of wall. “Darling, we’re so bad we’ll demolish the office.”
Melinda straightened her skirt and ran her fingers through her hair. “Did we bring the house down?”  

She winked.

“You look different,” said Wendy the next morning, filing her nails at the breakfast bar. “Got a glow about you.” She raised an eyebrow. “Holy crap.  You did it, didn’t you? You went and fucked your boss!”

Melinda flapped the air. “As if.” Then she headed straight for the door and collected the inevitable pink box from the step.   

“Not again,” said Wendy.

“This time,” said Melinda, “I’m guessing it’s lace.” As she headed for her bedroom to unwrap her gift, Wendy followed, calling, “Petal, I’m concerned. What if he’s insane?”

Melinda gave her a knowing look before inspecting the pink lace corset. “I suppose I’m beginning to realize it doesn’t matter what happens at work. However it turns out, I’ll still get punished.”

“Shit,” said Wendy. “How much trouble are you in?”

Melinda held up the corset and smiled.

About The Author

Lana fox
Lana Fox
Lana Fox is Co-Founder and Senior Editor of Go Deeper Press—a publisher of stories for brain and brawn. She also runs The Mermaid Voyage: A Two-Week Journey of Erotic Self-Discovery.  Lana’s articles and posts on sexuality have appeared in Boston Magazine, Spirituality & Health, Glo Magazine, and elsewhere.  She has widely published her erotic fiction, and she recently released a novel, published by Harper Collins’ Mischief, called “Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee.”  Her nonfiction self-help book is represented by the Sarah Jane Freymann Literary Agency and she can be found online at: and . Follow her on Twitter and Facebook.
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