The truth was, I was starting to get quite a lot of interested attention from the other girls in the office, not that I returned it. The supercunt had temporarily put me off the opposite sex, but I can't say that I didn't enjoy the looks and smiles that some of the more attractive girls were throwing my way. Like the document controller, Sharon. A short but shapely Essex girl, who came from Clacton, which was not too far from where I had been born, and used to talk to me because we were from the same county. For a while, when it became obvious that she fancied me, I toyed with the idea of asking her out, and I started to chat with her for longer intervals when we met in the corridor or the lift lobby. On one occasion, I met Sharon coming out of the tea booth, and had just started to warm the conversation up, when who should stroll out of the tea booth two minutes after Sharon? Only bloody Estelle.
She made sure to give a friendly hello to Sharon, while contriving a lukewarm, 'Hi, Martin,' for me.
'She spoils everything,' I thought to myself, but I had no idea how true that was until the following day, when I noticed a distinct change in Sharon's attitude towards me. She was just as friendly as before. Even more so in fact, but it didn't take me long to figure out that she had come to the conclusion that I was gay. Fuck, she even asked my opinion on her shoes. Now, that might seem to be something a woman could ask a man quite easily in the office context, but it isn't really, when you think about it. No woman would seriously ask a man she barely knew to advise her on whether her shoes were obvious knock off, unless she thought he knew his pumps from his plimsolls. My understanding of shoes went as far as knowing that a stiletto was a type of heel shaped like an Italian dagger, but I could no more have told you what it actually looked like other than that it fell into the general class 'high and sexy'.
It also didn't take me long to notice that the general attitude towards me had shifted in that direction, as the girls no longer stopped discussing the men in the office when I turned up as soon as they had noted that it was me, and not one of the supposed 'heteros'. I racked my brain for a way to disabuse them, and seeing as Estelle was the only woman who never joined these little gaggling groups of girlies, I waited until I was in a good 'huddle of hags', as they called these types of groupings, before announcing in a conspiratorial semi-whisper to Sharon, 'I was thinking of asking Estelle out. Do you think she is seriously engaged, and I am wasting my time?'
There was a shocked moment of total silence while the girls considered the ramifications of my question, and probably frantic trawls of memory to see it they had let anything juicy slip in my company, before Sharon gave a little snort of laughter, and said, 'You're wasting your time alright, Martin, but it's not because she's engaged. She told me weeks ago that you were gay!'
'Oh!' was all I could say, 'I don't know what gave her that idea.'
They all looked at me, with a varied mix of expressions, but the general feel was one of, 'Go away now, Martin, so we can discuss this new revelation in private.'
I walked off, sensing their eyes crawling like biting flies down my spine. The fucking bitch!
I returned to the pod, noticing for the first time the wariness that had crept into the behaviour of my male workmates. Where only days before there had been taut respect, now there were slight smiles every time I turned round to speak to them. An hour of observation soon made me realise that they had decided to 'embrace' my revealed sexuality, as this explained my obsession with my physique, as to hetero men in my field, the lack of a desk paunch is taken as evidence of either a dietary condition or where accompanied by developed musculature, homosexuality. My immersion in work to the exclusion of football, women, and and all the other bollocks that men are supposed to be interested in had only reinforced this view. My apparent disinterest in the delectable Estelle was also explained, as hitherto I had not responded positively to their tentative comments on her attractiveness. The awkwardness that accompanied my silence after Guy, watching her smooth rear gyrate away from us, had raised one eyebrow at me, looked after her tight behind, and said, 'Not a bad bum, eh?,' was now explained.
But how was I now to make them aware of their mistake. Should I throw a gambit in to the general conversation like, 'I think Monica Belluci is the sexiest actress alive, chaps. What do you think?'
Would they assume I was trying to hide my true leaning from them by a red herring?
Should I go out with one of the girls? Or would they also assume I was trying to disguise my true nature and even if they did accept an invitation, insist on going somewhere camp and quirky?
I had to hand it to Estelle. She was a twisted, evil bitch, but her subtlety impressed me all the same.
I actually laughed out loud when I saw how neatly she had tied me in a web of impossibilities.
Guy and Charlie looked at me in surprise, and then smiled back in a questioning way.
'What?' enquired Charlie, while Guy grinned expectantly.
'Apparently,' I said, cocking my head to one side and glancing from one man to the other, 'the girls all think I am gay.'
'Really?' said Guy, as if the idea had never occurred to him.
'Yeah,' I said, 'they just told me not half an hour ago.'
'Fuck me,' said Charlie, then, after a pause continued, 'and you're not then?'
'No', I said, and laughed again. 'I just don't like football.'
That comment seemed to mend things between us, as we began to make each other laugh again. It reminded me of how things had been before Estelle arrived, and I realised I had to do something about her.
Captured
As luck would have it, this all happened on a Friday afternoon, when it was traditional for most staff to knock off at four and go home or to the pub. I had stopped taking part in the pub run months ago, so no-one took offence when I turned down the invitation they routinely offered for me to accompany them. Bless the boys though, as they were more sincere and insistent in their invitations than they had been for ages, and while I thought it was probably because they were mildly relieved that I wasn't going to 'come out' for a least another few days, I appreciated the fact that if I had been gay, they were willing to take it in their stride. My plan was to wait until everyone was gone, and then go and see Estelle, who was always the last to leave. But then, she was bloody perfect, wasn't she? As it happened, she saved me the bother, because I noticed her out of the corner of my eye, making her way towards the lift. She obviously hadn't seen me, or she would have surely spared me a glare or two, so I got up to follow her before she got into one of the lifts and left me with the whole weekend to stew over her spiteful treatment of me. I was going to have it out with little miss hoity-toity Estelle
I have to admit, my heart rate was up as I strode after her, and my level of fitness was so high at that stage that it could only be blamed on tension. Then I stopped, a little puzzled, as I watched her go into the main server room unaccompanied. This was highly unusual, as it was standard company procedure that no one, with no exceptions, was allowed in there on their own. I found myself wondering how her swipe card activated the door, as it normally required two separate id cards swiped within 3 seconds of each other before the door would open. It was all intriguing enough that I decided to stay back in a darker section of the floor and wait to see how long she was in there. It was a full fifteen minutes later when she came out, and instead of going directly to the lift like I expected, she dipped in to the tea booth with an unusually furtive set of body movements.
I decided to surprise her, and made my way quietly up the aisle, and peeped around the edge of the booth wall to see if she had noticed me. For a moment I didn't see her, as I was expecting her to be standing up. Instead, the first thing I noticed was the thin stems of her high heels sticking out as she knelt, shoulders down and arse up, with her head under the sink.
The question, which the boys were always asking, of whether she was a thong or French knicker girl was finally answered, as was the often accompanying question of stockings or tights.
B
ecause she was trying to get down low and under the sink, and because she obviously assumed she was alone in the office, she had pulled the tight hem of her skirt up over her hips in order not to split the seams across her muscular thighs as she struggled to get right to the back of the cupboard to do whatever it was she was doing.
I was treated to a sight that every man in the office had dreamed about seeing at one time or the another. The super cunt was on her knees, with her stocking clad thighs braced wide apart, and her tanned, muscular arse cheeks tipped up in full view. I say full view because her underwear of choice this evening was a tight, black G-string, and it did little or nothing to cover the plump, smooth lips of her cunt. In fact, it seemed almost to disappear in places because she had spread her thighs so wide, causing it, though sheer elasticity, to work its way up into the cleft. I imagine that it had been working its way in there all day, and she obviously was comfortable with that. I felt my cock thump slowly to life, as I scanned every detail of her inviting, upraised bottom. I had to work hard not to exhale too loudly, as I watched her buttocks clench and bunch together, as she strained to reach the back of the cupboard, then flow magically apart as she retreated, to reveal the thin black line of her G-string neatly bisecting the taut, tinted pucker of her asshole. It was enough to make me sway backwards and forwards with light headedness. It felt like all the blood in my head had suddenly flowed into my balls and cock, as they pumped steadily to life.
A queer thumping noise started in my ears, as I savoured the way the cone of tinted skin around her little bottom hole dipped away from the dark line of material bisecting it. Her bottom cheeks and the backs of her upper thighs glistened and bulged under the harsh neon lighting of the booth, in that firm glowing way that only athletic flesh can. Her neat bulging calves, an almost geometric configuration of tensed muscle and sinew, completed the fleshy triangle of enticement whose nearest apex to me was the underside of the tips of her shiny black shoes. It was the most innocently lewd display I had ever seen, considering she had no idea I was there, and so no thought of sexual teasing could have been crossing her clever mind.**************************
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The Dreams of the Succubii Page 14