He did it like a woman urging her bottom back for a man’s cock. He did it like an animal seeking a mounting. I had no idea how he expected me to mount him, but after the initial shock that’s what I thought of anyway.
I’ve never wished so fiercely that I had a cock. A big fat cock that I could have plunged into his tight little arsehole – made him beg for it, made him whimper and whine and twist on me.
It occurred to me later on that he was gay and some kind of fascination with me had gripped him. Perhaps he felt that I was a rather mannish woman, perfect for trying out straightness.
But that misconception didn’t last long.
It stopped when I caught him looking down my top. It stopped even more when I deliberately leaned forwards and let him see further, and he couldn’t even contain his little sigh of satisfaction.
He didn’t even look embarrassed when I flicked my gaze to his face, and finally, finally, his eyes drew up and away from my tits to meet mine. I think he tried to contain that sly slut’s smile of his, but other than that he did nothing.
Because sluts never do anything about getting caught, being a slut.
He became even more flagrant when I ogled him openly and lewdly. I caught him changing in his cubicle – just his shirt, nothing more – and instead of walking away and giving him his privacy, I stood there and ogled him. I did it like a challenge. I drew my gaze over his long lean torso, the slow slide down into his narrow hips, his thickly broad shoulders and his skin, oh, his lovely pale milk skin.
I didn’t apologize for it; I didn’t let myself be nervous. I imagined what it must be like to be a man, if he were the woman. His sluttishness would make me confident, horny, unabashed. Why shouldn’t I look, if he delights in it?
And he did delight in it. Far from stopping, he had worked his vest oh so slowly up, up over his thick chest, fingers skimming his gorgeous skin as though wanting them to be my fingers, burning dark eyes never leaving mine.
Right at the very last moment he had bitten his lip, and dropped his gaze.
I think I loved him, for that.
He does more things that I love him for. Many more things. Many more things that my pussy loves him for. He becomes a clit-tease, a filthy little temptress, pushing on my nerves and my restraint.
Surely he knows. Surely he knows that soon, I won’t have any.
When in a board meeting, an important meeting that he is only present at to take minutes in his silly too-big handwriting, I know that he looks. I can feel his eyes ever returning to me, waiting for me to look back. Sluts are only satisfied when you look back. He wants my attention on him, confirming his attractiveness. Making him sure that what he has worn that day pleases and excites me.
And it does. I have no idea how he knew, but I have a thing for men in V-neck jumpers. Buttoned up like a female relic from the eighteenth century, tie knotted too tight for comfort, material clinging in a way that suggests that the wearer is not aware it is clinging. No one who wears V-neck jumpers could be aware that they’re in something clingy.
Except for him. He obviously designed it that way: the perfect trap for my desire.
But clearly, he isn’t satisfied with the effect just yet. It isn’t quite enough for me to occasionally admire his shoulders, or to wonder what it would be like to hook my finger into the loop of his tie and lead him around the office like a dog. That dog who wanted me to mount it, back in the stationery cupboard.
No. He has to go one step further. He has to push it. He has to lean back in those thankfully smooth and soundless meeting room chairs, stretching his glorious body out for my delectation. He has to take his pen, and pat it lightly against his full lower lip. That lower lip I want to bite.
Even worse, he then decides to part those biteable lips, and just ever so slightly nudge the pen inside. I see his perfect white teeth bite down – not hard enough to leave any sort of mark, but not lightly, either. The perfect biting strength for, say, a nipple. And then maybe his tongue could … oh yes. Just flicker against the thing in his mouth. And maybe he could then …
Suck.
I watch his cheeks hollow, just a little, just enough to put a person in mind of a little boy sucking on a lollipop, rather than anything lewd. But, of course, it’s lewd to me. It’s lewd because I know what he is and what it means, the tease.
Because that’s what he’s doing, really. He’s teasing me with his perfectly cut features and his broad shoulders and his limpid eyes and his sucking mouth. He probably thinks I won’t do a thing about any of it, because how could such a lovely creature as him be interested in me?
But he’s a fool. I would say he’s playing with fire, but fire has nothing on my libido.
When the meeting ends, I line my voice with calm cool iron and say to him: “Can I see you in my office, Brad?”
Of course he has a name like Brad. Something wholesome and cute. If he were a girl, he’d be called Candy.
“Of course, Ms Layton,” he replies, and oh the devil pushes just the right hint of bemusement into his voice. Why, he has no idea what I might want with him. He is only a little insignificant peon. What on earth could he have done wrong?
I am going to show you what you have done wrong, Brad.
I hear him lolloping after me. He’s very tall and near gangly, despite the bulk of his chest and shoulders. I suppose that’s why I don’t feel intimidated by his size, though I accept that there are other reasons.
It’s hard to be intimidated by a floozy.
Even though I think he wants me to be intimidated. I think he wants me to be in awe of his sexual power, in thrall to him. I should be hypnotized and tormented by his behaviour and the way he looks. Big boss woman Ms Layton brought low? We’ll see.
Once we’re inside the safety of my office, I close the door behind us. I lock it. He jerks a little when I do, but it’s too late for him to be surprised and innocent. Now he’s going to have to pay the piper.
“Have I …?” he starts to say, but I think something in my expression stops him.
“Yes. You’ve done something very wrong. Very wrong indeed.”
His face falls – and he does it well, too. It hardly looks put on at all. “I’m so sorry, Ms Layton,” he says. “How can I make it up?”
Again, it’s all very convincing. He’s a clever boy.
“Bend over that desk, and write on the notepad I have there exactly what you’ve done wrong, and how you expect to resolve the matter.”
He hesitates for the barest of moments. I see his tongue touch his upper teeth.
And then he does exactly what I’ve asked.
He presents his rump to me perfectly, just like in the stationery cupboard, and then he takes up my best pen and starts scribbling with it. Each time he scribbles, his bottom wiggles just a little bit.
It’s delightful. It’s begging for my hand. I don’t know why he makes that little shocked sound, when I whack my palm against that begging flesh.
“Hoh!” he gasps. But he doesn’t stop writing. He doesn’t even turn around. It’s the third slap he looks back at me on, and I see his eyes so naked and his cheeks flushed and that mouth hanging open. Shock and sex and hunger all stirred up together.
“Eyes front,” I tell him. “While I punish you.”
“Is this how you punish all your staff?” he asks, so I reach around and unbuckle his belt. Clearly he needs something more severe, and he doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t even go to stop my hand or ask again if I do this with all staff, he just moans and whispers something I can’t hear.
“Louder,” I say, so he shouts out with a break in the middle:
“I can’t believe this is happening!”
“What did you think would happen, tease?”
“I—” he starts to say, but then I yank his Calvin Kleins down to meet the trousers that are now around his ankles, and he groans for me some more.
He has stopped writing altogether now. The pen is still clutched in his hand, however, though that does
n’t last long. Once his underpants hit the floor so does the pen, and, though I can’t see, I know exactly what he’s doing: jerking off.
His thighs butt against the desk. His hips roll. I hear that slick clicking of a hand shuttling up and down a stiff cock, and he must know I can, too. But he doesn’t stop. Not even when I slap his bare buttocks hard enough to leave a mark.
Instead he gasps: “I’m going to come all over the nice neat writing I’ve just done for you.”
“Bad slut,” I tell him, and slap right over the handprint I’ve just made.
Unfortunately, this only makes him groan and fuck himself harder. I actually think he’s really going to come that quickly; I can see his bum cheeks clenching and he’s making far too much noise and soon he’s babbling: “God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I need to come so bad, God, I’ve been thinking about your tits all afternoon.”
I yank on his arm and get his hand away from his cock as punishment. He squirms with frustration, but doesn’t try to start it up with his other hand, as though he were just waiting for me to stop him and a show of stopping him is enough.
“All afternoon?”
“Yeeessss,” he whines, and I want to turn him around so much. I want to see his gorgeous face all crumpled with impatience and lust, and then I want to watch him tug his cock until it gleams.
“Is this something you’ve done before?”
Oddly, I feel like a doctor. It isn’t a terrible feeling by any means.
“What? Think about … your tits … or jerk off at work?”
That last bit comes out in a rush, and sets me glowing. Oh, to think of him doing himself in one of the stalls or in his cubicle under his desk! My clit twinges in sympathy.
“Usually I … Usually I have to … you know. Because I’ve been thinking about you.”
“What do you think about me doing?”
“I catch you. I catch you playing with yourself. Playing with your nipples with your shirt open and your skirt up.”
Oh Jesus, that’s nice. I’ve done it before, too, in my office. With the door locked, of course, but sometimes I’m daring enough to leave the blinds open, hoping that some beefy window cleaner will chance by and see me as lewd as can be, legs spread open, fingers strumming my clit to a great big juicy orgasm.
I need to come so bad now that I can feel my clit straining against the material of my panties, and I’m wet enough to feel it when I move. Maybe I’ll make him watch while I bring myself off with that little buzzing dildo I keep in my bag. Maybe I’ll make him lick my clit with his hands tied behind his back so that he can’t do himself. Maybe I’ll let him fuck me over the desk, great handfuls of my tits in his big hands, some window cleaner watching with his cock in his fist.
Oh the possibilities are endless, when you’ve got a slut on your hands.
“You like my tits and my nipples, huh?”
“Yes,” he gusts out.
I circle the desk, slowly, leaving his sore arse and all that shameful need to not look him in the face behind. My legs almost buckle when I get a look at him – firm, endlessly curving prick as red and glistening as you please, shirt tails flapping, face flushed and slack. He looks like he could devour just about anyone right now. I could probably bring in Margot from accounting, and have him hump her over my couch.
“Would you like to see them now?”
“Seriously? Jesus, yes.”
I think it’s the most sincere I’ve ever heard any man sound. I don’t think he knows how to be anything but, though I suppose that’s what sluts are really made of – honesty. He cannot be anything but honest about his own desires.
So I reward him by unbuttoning my shirt. He answers me by breathing hard and going for his cock again, but I tell him no. No, the price he has to pay for the sight of my breasts is keeping his hands by his sides.
It delights me that when I tell him this, he closes his eyes and clenches his teeth, but still obeys. The hands at his sides become fists – I hadn’t realized how much fun sluts were to play with. Do men do this all the time? Make them beg and plead and clench their teeth?
What fun.
I slide my shirt all the way off, and then unfasten the front clasp of my bra. His eyes have completely forgone my face but I can’t blame him. I’m too flattered to blame him – he looks like he’s about to see God.
My sensitive nipples brush the lace of the cups as I peel the material away, but the soft sigh of my pleasure is freely given when he sighs too.
“Are you turned on?” he moans – I think more because my nipples are so small and tight than because I sighed. “Does it turn you on, screwing around with me like this?”
“You know, I think it does,” I say.
His eyes shutter closed again for the briefest moment. “Can I jerk off?”
“Not yet.”
“Please. Please. I think I’m gonna burst.”
“You’ll live. Now, I want you to come here, and play with my tits. Do you think you can do that?”
I don’t think he can do it fast enough. He almost trips over his own trousers getting to me, and then his hands lunge at my breasts as though magnetized.
I slap them. He says sorry. But even when he’s saying it he can’t stop ogling them. I suppose they’re nice breasts – firm and full, nipples spiking upwards, skin as soft and fair as his – but even so. I just hadn’t realized, in between all of his teasing and cheekiness, that he might be so horny for me.
“Lick your fingers, first,” I tell him, and he does so real quick without any kind of teasing show. But then he waits, he waits, and that’s even better. “Now gently pinch and stroke them.”
He’s not a bad boy at all; I was wrong. He’s very, very good. He licks and strokes and thumbs my nipples, sometimes lightly pinching, other times just circling, ever slick and smooth. The ache from those tight tips soon transfers itself to my swollen clit and my empty, creaming pussy, but I squeeze my thighs together against it.
“Suck them,” I say, and he immediately falls to it, licking and sucking and mouthing until I’m shivering with pleasure. I even let out an “Oh yes, just like that,” and he groans into the flesh of my breast.
It makes it so that I can’t wait any longer. I slip my knickers down while he’s still licking and playing with my breasts, and then I pull away briefly to sit on the desk, legs spread. The cool air feels wonderful against my heated cunt, my stiff bud, but, God, his mouth would feel so much better.
I don’t even have to order him, either. He pushes up my skirt immediately, exposing my slick spread sex to his gaze.
“You’ve done that to me, tease,” I say, and part my sex lips with two fingers to give him a better view. My clit stands out proud and coated in my own arousal, and I can’t resist stroking it, lightly. “What are you going to do about it?”
He drops to his knees, immediately. I am reminded of someone about to die and praying to God to deliver him, and I have to say, I don’t mind that at all. He can pray all he wants at the altar of my pussy.
He hesitates before he leans forwards, but all that does is remind me how little he has hesitated so far. Not even at the lines I made him write. Not even at the spanking. But then again, you can’t exactly hesitate when you’ve rubbed your bottom into someone’s groin. It’s like a game of chicken, and no one wants to be the one who puts their foot on the brake first.
I wonder where my brake would have been, if I hadn’t decided to punish him. Would I have let him keep pushing me, going further and further – how far would he have gone?
Dirty pictures in my inbox, I think. Naughty emails and memos and oh, I should have let this game go on longer. I miss what I never got to see – him jerking off, just for me.
But now he’s licking at me, fingering me, fucking me with his mouth and hands and I can’t complain. He laves his tongue over my clit roughly at first, but soon more softly, more teasing, more exploratory.
Occasionally he replaces his flickering tongue with two fingers, scissorin
g around my clit and rubbing while he laps and mouths at the entrance to my pussy. The back and forth is maddening, but the caress of his tongue around every part of me sends slivers of sensation up my spine and back again. He coaxes out sensitive places I didn’t know I had, ever eager.
It’s the eagerness that makes him good, really. But then he has to be – good, I mean. He probably services women all the time.
Finally I give in and order him to bring me off, tugging him up by the thick hair at the nape of his neck so that his tongue can work my clit. Hearing my urgency, he laps quickly, pushing two thick fingers inside me and twisting them as he does.
It’s too much. My body seizes and my clit swells against his tongue, fresh liquid spilling over his fingers as I orgasm with a fistful of his hair clenched in my hand and my back arching. I grunt like an animal and tell him mindlessly: “Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming.” Mindlessly because of course he can’t fail to realize what’s happening. He moans and pants against my slippery flesh, doing his best to draw every last drop of pleasure from me, before I finally push him away.
He sprawls back, cock now so stiff and angry looking that I actually feel bad, for a moment. Even if he is a dirty tease, that can’t be comfortable. He actually seems to have leaked pre-come all the way down his shaft, and I can see his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
When I stop leaning back on my hands – relishing the slow dissipation of everything he has just given me – and move towards him, his cock jerks. He jerks. There is heat high up on his perfect pale cheeks, now, and soft dark tendrils of his hair cling to his temples. He looks like a livewire, juddering with too much electricity. He wants me to cut it in two, and let the snapping sizzling power out.
Which I will do.
I feel as though I’m prowling towards him. I am flushed and full up and he lies prostrate before me, back on his elbows, shoulders jutting forwards, lips parted. He tosses his head and his cute little sweeping fringe is out of his eyes. Sometimes they’re puppy-dog and sometimes they’re sultry and right now they’re burning black and deep.
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