Color me silly. I had no idea that women my mom's age like putting on a strap-on, 10” neon pink dildo and fucking their longtime husbands up the ass.
I don't judge. I just sell them and make money. If it makes people happy, who cares?
And right now, that 10” neon pink dildo was going to make me happy. I spat into my hand and rubbed the pink tip, then widened my legs. My foot pushed on the accelerator to keep up with traffic, then braked, as I slid a good 6 inches in me, practically coming on the spot.
Paul's legs flashed through my mind. His bare chest, thick with a man's sprinkling of dark hair, strong delts and well-defined six pack making me ache to feel it, slick against my belly, bodies merged and sweaty. Now I circled my clit with a careful, slow finger, not wanting to break into a Meg Ryan-like orgasm that would make the fellow drivers notice me.
The friction from the dildo helped my orgasm to build, and trying to keep myself from writhing and screaming made it all build even more. I had to keep one hand on the wheel, and one hand on the dildo, so this was getting complicated and nearly impossible – my clit needed to be stroked and rubbed, loved and touched, to get me where I wanted to be.
And just then, the traffic opened up. HONK! Ten different horns blared at the same time and I realized the lanes were wide open before me.
NO!
I shifted my foot to the accelerator and floored it, letting go of the dildo and squeezing it between my upper thighs. The leather seat felt hot and melted under my juices, which now pooled around my asshole, and as I drove I felt a rush of blood to my face. Both hands planted firmly at 10 and 2 on my steering wheel, I struggled for normalcy, aching for release.
Trying to drive at 65 miles per hour during rush hour with a dildo clamped in my pussy was hard enough. Removing it carefully and slipping it in my bag, pussy juices filling the air with a musky scent that made me crave a real man even more was harder. My discarded panties were on the floor near the brake. My hands smelled of me.
I pulled into the parking lot at work 30 minutes later and fixed myself. A box of tissues and some eye makeup remover wipes weren't really helping me to clean up, and my clit was screaming Lick me! Lick me! Trust me, Babe, if I could, I would.
And now I had to face Paul, whose blue eyes and luscious mouth would send me into orgasm on the spot if I looked at him twice right now. It was a cloudy day but I grabbed my sunglasses anyhow. I needed all the privacy – and disguise – I could get.
Hiding my lust from him would be as impossible as covering up the pussy smell I exuded, but I had to try.
“Hey, Jill!” Paul shouted. I pretended I didn't hear him and practically sprinted to my office, shutting the door and leaning against it. Barricading him out of my little room wasn't going to work for long, but if it bought me enough time to sneak into the bathroom and wash up, it would help.
Bang bang bang. Paul never knocked politely anyhow, but this sounded like an invasion.
Silence. Maybe he would go away.
Laughter from the hallway. “Jill, I know you're in there. Let me in.”
I let a few seconds pass, then rifled through my desk drawers. Didn't I have something – anything – that I could use to cover up the pussy scent on my hands? Why didn't I wear perfume or use lotion? My lack of feminine wiles crept up on me suddenly. For want of a bottle of lotion, the embarrassment was rife.
I unlocked the door and stepped as far away from it as I could. Opening a window wasn't an option in the hermetically-sealed office building.
“What is wrong with you?” Paul demanded, barging in. He stopped and got a very peculiar look on his face, then sniffed. Flinching, he looked around the room, then looked me up and down, but said nothing. He was mighty fine this morning, wearing a lightweight red soccer shirt and Levi's. Button fly, by the looks of it. I'd like to unbutton him. With my teeth.
Lick me! Lick me! my clit screamed, and I looked at his mouth, that sensual lip and lopsided grin. But he wasn't grinning right now. Instead, he leaned against my bookcase and crossed his arms, revealing sinewy, muscled forearms. “What's going on, Jill. Are you...OK?”
“Fine,” I choked out, trying not to look him in the eye.
“What was that all about on the phone, then?” he asked, eyes searching for mine. He leaned to the left and dipped his head down, trying to get me to look at him. A shock of hair fell over his eyebrow and he looked like the most delicious, loving, sensual man in history and I just wanted to go and live on a desert island with him for the rest of my life, staring into his eyes.
I tried to laugh it off. “Oh, I was just joking around. You know how I hate it when people underestimate me.”
“I don't underestimate you,” he replied, his voice darkening. From any other man I'd assume that was a sign of desire, but I couldn't really believe that Paul would be interested in me. Besides, I was trying to keep him as far away from me as possible. I smelled like untamed cunt, and right now, I just wanted to get into a bathroom stall and unleash this orgasm, then wash up and get my work done.
“Well, good. Then that's settled.” I shuffled some files into order and gave him a tight smile. “If you don't mind, I have a ton of work to do.” Then I looked pointedly at the door and into his eyes, arching my eyebrows and hoping to God he would just walk away and let me deal with this blender of emotions and arousal inside me.
He stood his ground, though. “For someone who claims to be all het up about being underestimated, you sure are acting like a baby right now.” He stressed the word “baby” and pushed my temper button. Paul has known me since I was 14, so for 10 years, and he knew that saying that would piss me off enough to start yelling.
So I did, because it was easier that throwing myself at him and shoving my tongue down his throat.
“Fuck you, Paul.” My voice got louder, and I knew the secretary would hear me. I didn't care anymore. “Just leave me alone, OK?”
“I'd like to do just that,” he answered, stepping closer, leaning his hands against the edge of my desk. I was on the other side and the wall of windows was behind me. He trapped me, and my heart pounded and writhed in my chest, like a big, vascular version of my clit.
“Then do it,” I said. “Go.”
“That's not the part of your statement I'm referring to.”
“Huh?”
“You said “Fuck you, Paul.' I'd like to do that.” Naked emotional vulnerability and pure lust filled his face, a look I'd never seen on him before. Having slept with enough men (and a few women) gave me the experience to call it what it was, but the rush of thrill at being the object of his desire made it new and clean, fresh and knowing.
“You...what?” Now his face changed and he pulled into himself, one hand raking his dark, silky hair, the other supporting his weight as he rested on the desk, veins popping out and muscles tight.
“I...this was a mistake. I shouldn't have said that, Jill.” He frowned, a pensive look on his face. Then he turned to go.
“NO!” I shouted. “No, no, you said the right thing. I...it's been ten years. Don't make me wait any longer. I'm really not a baby any more.” Whoosh, I sighed, all the air escaping me, then inhaled and smelled my own want.
He turned back to me and stepped around the desk in one second flat. A tentative arm reached for my shoulder. “Really?”
I laughed. “Really. I'm not a baby any more.” He laughed and drew my face to his, the kiss as hungry and aching as my clit.
Ten years. I'd been perfectly legal for the past 6 years but never had the guts to say anything. Thank God for today. His hands owned every inch of my skin, roaming under my shirt, reaching for my thighs. He didn't play around, and as our tongues learned each other's mouths, lips devouring, we both quickly agreed with our bodies that this was no gentle exploration.
This was conquest.
He lifted me up on the desk and parted my legs. My panties were soaked, and I could feel the wetness seeping through my thin skirt. “Do you have any idea h
ow much I've wanted you?” he murmured, leaving a trail of kisses up my inner thigh.
“Oh, Paul, not as much as I've wanted you.”
And then his tongue was on my clit, two fingers slid inside me, and he licked and laved and teased and calibrated until I buried my hands in his hair and shoved him against me, wanting his tongue hard and fierce on me. He pulled back for air.
“You are so wet, Jill,” he muttered, grinning that half grin that drove me mad.
“You don't know the half of it,” I replied, and then he finished me off, his tongue reading my mind, fingers hooking up to stroke my G spot, my orgasm a writhing series of waves that thumped my pencil case off the desk. I couldn't stop bucking and riding his face, and as the orgasm subsided, my pussy walls clamped and released in a pattern, his tongue teasing every drop of climax from me.
No one had ever gone down on me like that. All my suspicions about Paul's skill as a lover were – so far – turning out to be correct.
One final orgasm took me by surprise as he kissed my belly and used a finger on my clit, sending my hips shooting upward, descending on the desk with a thump that made my tote bag fall over onto his shoulder.
Something spilled out onto the floor.
His touch stopped instantly. I sat up and followed his gaze, seeing the strap on sitting on the floor, like a little brother who spilled a secret to get his sister in trouble.
There I was, spread-eagle on my own desk, being eaten out by my high school crush, and my strap on was laying on the floor next to him.
I wanted to die. Right there. A sinkhole could form in the earth and swallow me whole. Please.
Paul reached over and picked it up, the neon pink dick flopping in his hand. I turned away and straightened myself, embarrassed as fuck.
My heart was pounding, still recovering from the wild ride he'd just given me.
And then Paul, the object of my crush for 10 years, shocked the everloving hell out of me by saying, “It's like you read my mind.”
“What”?
Now it was his turn to look shy and embarrassed. He stood up and slid his arms along my ribs, pressing his groin between my legs. I wrapped my legs around his hips and just enjoyed the feel of him.
“I was just reading about, you know.” He gestured toward the strap on in his hand. “Are you, you know...”
A long, slow kiss was my answer. Then I unbuttoned that button-fly crotch and stroked his ass, my hands hitting wall after wall of pure muscle. Soccer players have asses like granite, and soon, I discovered, their cocks are nice and hard, too.
My mouth covered his shaft beautifully, bringing out a moan that vibrated through my back teeth. As I sucked I took my pinkie finger and played at the edge of his anus, teasing the thick ring of muscle. A little saliva gave me enough to enter, just barely, and I felt his cock jump. I needed to be careful here; too much and he'd come, losing out on the prostate-stimulated ass fucking that would, I hoped, give him the orgasm of a lifetime.
“Time to trade places,” I said in a sing-song voice. A grateful, eager look filled his face, and we quickly got him up on the desk, my groin now pressing into his, me standing behind the desk. His naked body was a sight for ancient Roman and Greek sculptors, and I wanted to take the time to savor it with my eyes, but then a thought hit me:
This would not be my only chance.
I reached around him and grabbed the strap-on, sliding off my skirt and panties, the strapping it on. My tote bag had a bottle of strawberry-scented lube, so I poured it on his tight butthole and slathered the shaft of the dildo.
“Oh, Jill, come on, Baby. This is getting to be too much,” he moaned. Baby. Hah!
Using my pinkie finger, I slid in to the hand knuckle, wriggling to find the prostate. Not quite long enough. As I pulled my pinkie out, I nudged the very tip of the neon pin dildo against the ring of fire at his anus. He gasped and grabbed the sides of the desk, clearly in pain. A half inch at a time, in and then out, loosened him up just a little.
“If it's too much, you tell me and I'll stop,” I whispered, leaning over to lick his ear.
He shivered. “Don't stop,” he growled, determined and hungry.
A half inch, then an inch, and then millimeter by millimeter I slid in, pouring more lube on at every insert. Wearing a dildo felt powerful, gave me an edge I didn't feel, normally, during sex. I slowly slid about four inches out, then very gradually back in, keeping the lube nice and copious. Paul closed his eyes and bore the pain, but then his face changed and I could see his pleasure.
“Faster,” he mumbled, and I obliged. He shifted to get a better angle, then arched his hips off the desk. “Oh, my God – what was that?” he nearly shrieked.
“Your prostate,” I answered, giggling.
“Do it more,” he begged. “Please, Jill, find that again. Please!”
And so I did. He was about three thrusts away from blowing his wad everywhere, his enormous cock turgid and swollen, aching for release. I wanted to draw this out and tease him, but I could tell the poor guy needed to be let out of this orgasm. I thrust in and he bucked against me, willing more of the dildo inside his ass. I looked down to discover were about 6 inches in, and then I slid out, never completely exiting.
One, two, three – and his entire body went rigid, like a woman at climax, his cock twitching and ticcing, finally spurting hot, white cum all over my chest and face. My hips rhythmically fucked him, loving the power, and I slid a finger down to my clit to catch an all-too easy, all-too tantalizing orgasm that had emerged.
Paul, meanwhile, writhes and groaned and twitched and spewed, mewling noises coming out of him. His vulnerability made me love him all the more, and now I knew he had some kinks – kinks I planned to explore, in excruciating detail, for the rest of my life.
I slowed down fucking him as his orgasm subsided and he gasped, great, loopy intakes of air that sounded like a sexual version of an asthma attack. Finally, he went still and I stopped, respecting his need.
“You can pull out,” he whispered, spent and drained. I did, then took off the strap on.
His entire body looked like it was made of noodles, spread out naked and hairy on my desktop. After a good 5 minutes he sat up, then slid off the desk gingerly, wincing slightly when he ass his the edge of the desk. We both dressed quickly, then turned and looked at each other.
“So,” I said, drawing out the word.
“So,” he answered, grinning. We stared at each other, the word filling the molecules in the room like the scent of our sex.
He glanced at the strap on. “You have many secrets, Jill. I want to learn all about them.” He came in for a kiss and embraced me.
I reached for the tote bag and held it open for him to look in. “You're right. I have many, uh, secrets.”
The look on his face when he saw all the sex toys was priceless, and my response was a long-winded laugh, one that carried release and hope into the world.
“I thought I had you pegged as a vanilla sex kind of girl.”
“Oh, no, Paul. I'm definitely the one who has you pegged.” My evil grin promised so much more.
Pegging the Boss: Alicia and Mike
I was thrilled when the temp agency called to offer me an entry-level bookkeeper position. Fourteen bucks an hour, free parking, and if I worked out, a permanent job with benefits after 90 days. Graduating with my associate degree in accounting hadn't been the ticket to a new financial life.
Instead, I'd been saddled with student loans and a sinking feeling that I'd never break out of retail Why spend three years going to community college part-time if all I could do was keep my job at the mall, folding sweaters and asking grumpy people if I could help them?
So when Frank and Wesson Temporary Services called, it was a breath of fresh air.
“One quick question, Alicia,” the recruiter asked, her voice hesitant and awkward. “You are 20, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you have shoulder-length, black hair with bangs?”
“Yes.” Where was this going? It wasn't a modeling gig.
“Size 6 foot?”
“Yup.”
“And do you have a problem working late nights and, sometimes, weekends?” Her voice shifted to a more professional tone.
“Sure. No problem.” Hell, I'd been doing it in retail for years.
“You're in peak physical condition?” She cleared her throat after saying “peak.”
“Can you please define 'peak'?” I looked in the mirror in my bedroom, the one attached to the back of the door. I saw a 5'5” woman with a 26” waist, too-big breasts, straight black hair and greenish eyes. My sheer black hose showed off the strong calves I worked hard to sculpt through weightlifting.
“Could you, for instance, handle marathon work sessions into the night? Or would you get too tired?”
“Oh, no – I can handle just about anything a boss throws my way,” I laughed.
“Anything?” she squeaked.
“Jennifer, I've been working retail at the mall for four years. I've probably seen it all.”
Now it was her turn to laugh. “Maybe...you haven't. This is a pretty quirky client. I have permission to increase the pay for $20 an hour if you're willing to be a bit...unorthodox.”
For $20 an hour I'd show up in a teddy and fishnet stockings and give a pet monkey a handjob. “What exactly do you mean?” I asked, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. My mom didn't even make $20 an hour. Hell, I didn't think my dad made that much!
“Well, two things: the client would like to buy you a new pair of shoes every day, and asks that you hand them over to him at the end of each shift.”
“Foot fetish?” I chirped. My turn to squeak. What the fuck? I guess if they wanted to buy me a new pair of heels every day and take them home to...what? What do people with foot fetishes do with the used shoes?
I was about to find out.
She pointedly ignored my comment. “And the second is – would you let them photograph you wearing the shoes. Both of the company's owners need to be present.”
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