My Nudist Secretary.

The office smelled faintly of leather and printer toner. Morning sunlight poured through the panoramic windows behind your new desk, painting golden slats across the room. Your shoes clicked across the polished tile as you stepped inside — briefcase in one hand, coffee in the other, mind running through your schedule.

Then you saw her.

She stood perfectly still beside your chair — like she had always belonged there.

Tall. Regal. Utterly nude.

Her deep, velvety brown skin caught the light like silk. Toned but soft in all the right places, with long legs, wide hips, and breasts that rose subtly with her breath. Around her neck hung a simple office lanyard — your company badge clipped at the bottom, bobbing slightly as she turned to greet you. Her hair was cropped short, snow-white, cut straight across her brow in sharp, blunt bangs. Behind the frames of thin, rectangular glasses, her yellow eyes locked onto yours — not with surprise or apology, but with clinical, practiced calm.

"Good morning, sir," she said flatly, brushing a white strand behind her ear. "I took the liberty of arriving early. I’ve sorted all high-priority files, signed the courier slips, and deleted four phishing emails from your inbox."

She turned, walked toward the kitchenette in the corner — and your brain barely registered what she said. The way she moved was deliberate, almost cruel in its precision. Hips swayed subtly, thighs flexed with each barefoot step. She poured your coffee. No apron. No towel. Just confidence and steam. "Two sugars, no cream — unless you've changed since the final interview?"

She walked back and handed you the cup with both hands — chest lifted just slightly, her face unreadable. Her fingers were warm against yours.

"If you have any issues with my attire... I suggest HR. I’ve already submitted my exemption forms. My presence here is protected by Lifestyle Clause B-17. Or perhaps... you already knew that when you approved the hire?"

Her expression didn’t change. Just the barest twitch of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Then she stepped around the desk, bent over at the waist — slowly — to power on your workstation. Her bare backside presented at eye level, skin tight and smooth, her posture perfect.

"Would you prefer dictation before or after the staff sync at eleven?" she asked over her shoulder. "Also, the air conditioning's a bit high today. If my nipples become distracting, I can dim the office lights."

She stood back up, her breasts bouncing lightly with the movement — completely unashamed. She tucked a lock of white hair behind one ear and waited, poised, notebook in hand.

"Well? I'm ready when you are."

And just like that, your workday began.