New boss reaches into my skirt, then into my pants, then into me, while my fiance encourages me to let him.
This story is largely about a committed couple who lived for several years in separate cities, required by their jobs. Both partners gave the other room to have sexual experiences, short-term affairs so that they did not have to be completely celibate for their years apart. Their affairs were not “cheating” or “unfaithful” in any sense. They encouraged each other to enjoy themselves sexually, just so long as they did not become entangled emotionally. They talked a lot about their adventures, used them as fuel for their mutual lust. Sport fucking, yes; romance, no. This story is about the woman’s adventures in her workplace.
If you are upset by the idea of spouses having sexual experiments outside their primary relationship, please stop reading right now. Don’t just leave nasty comments because you don’t like this type of story. Skip it entirely. You have been asked politely.
There is a lot of truth here, plus some fictional details added for spice. The overall arc of the story is completely true. Some incidents, some actions, some dialog have been elaborated, increased in intensity and detail. Ms. Screwloose isn’t a slut just because she went to bed with a number of men. She was still single, and her fiance encouraged her to play. If anything, he was her coach cheering from the sidelines. She was basically serially monogamous in her affairs. Sex-driven, not sex-crazed. A helluva woman.
For some years between grad school and marriage, my guy and I carried on a long distance relationship, me in New York, him in DC. We got together on weekends as often as we could afford, bless Amtrak. Train was cheaper than the shuttle (plane) but still too expensive to do all the time. Otherwise we just had long phone calls and the occasional letter. We were young and in love and highly sexual, so there was hot stuff in the phone calls and the letters.
I was assistant to the president of a medium size marketing firm. I had an MBA and several years’ experience, so I was not just a glorified secretary. I was his top staff guy – well, girl of course, but that’s what he told people: “See my staff guy.” At that time, I had been working there about four months.
This was a very proper, buttoned down office: suits on the men, dresses or suits on the women. Skirts were well above the knee as was the fashion then. But no pantsuits. Verboten. It’s not that there was no hanky panky in the office, it wasn’t *that* buttoned down. I saw hints of it in some of the working relationships, everyone saw a little of it, but it wasn’t blatant. So, a normal office, somewhere in the middle between a convent and an orgy.
He was really a nice guy, my boss. Fiftyish, tall, thin, salt and pepper, really good looking. Personable, forceful. Smart as a whip. Top in his field. And I really liked him. He was, of course, married out in Connecticut somewhere.
One day, I was showing him new figures for an ad campaign, standing next to his chair on his side of the desk, leaning down to reach the papers. Our meetings were like that, he seated at his desk, with me standing next to him, usually leaning down to point out important notes or numbers on the papers. This day, as I was leaning down, he put his hand around my waist gently to pull me closer. Okay, not that big a deal. I didn’t object. It distracted me for a moment, but not a problem, and it went no further that day.
The next day, same situation, he pulled me closer. And then, after a minute, his hand slid down onto my hip. And then after another minute, down to my ass. Now *that* was distracting, and I lost my place for a moment, but it didn’t interrupt the conversation much.
I was a little surprised. There had not been a lot of sexual tension between us. I thought he was a very attractive older man, probably the BMOC in his college days. He was gorgeous and a jock in his youth, and was still very handsome years later. I had, and still have, a thing for rugged guys with a little gray at the temples, so he fit my type.
I didn’t know what he thought of me as a woman, at least not until that moment. He had touched me a few times, an encouraging pat on the arm, Good Job, that sort of thing. This touch was not a friendly touch or encouragement, nor just a pat on the butt. He left his hand there, stroked up and down my ass from waist to leg, and caressed me. These were the days of near-universal pantyhose on businesswomen, so all he felt was a firm butt through my skirt. I wasn’t appalled, I didn’t scream or slap away his hand. This was decades before the days of sexual harassment lawsuits. Boys will be boys, y’know. The meeting ended, I stood up and left his office, tingling a little from the overly-familiar touch.
Wow, I didn’t know what to think. An affair with the boss was a cliche and not a good one. Risky. It might aid promotion possibilities, but who wants to be the girl who “slept her way to the top?” And if it goes wrong, it’s always the girl underling who gets fired or transferred to Siberia. But he was a very sexy guy, powerful, magnetic. And I was between playmates. I had to be careful.
I talked to my honey about it in a very offhand way. I didn’t think it was a big deal, though it was certainly more than a hand casually around the waist.
“Is he really off base here? I mean, is ‘dipping your pen in the company ink’ expected or frowned upon or forbidden? If someone found out about it, who would be in trouble, you or him?”
“Oh, I think I would, There are some hints of office relationships, but nothing really public. And he is The Big Cheese, so no one would challenge him on it, even if there were a policy about it, which there isn’t.”
“Okay, what do you want to do about it? What are you concerned about?”
“Well . . . I don’t object in general to a little fondling. But what if he wants to go further with it? What if he wants to feel me up? Do I let him play with my boobs? Kiss me?”
“Don’t ask *me*! What do *you* think? Are you concerned about being a toy or about your career?”
“Career more. I guess I don’t mind being exploited a little bit to keep this terrific job.”
“Then do whatever you feel comfortable with. You know that, sweetie. Play as you wish. Have fun. Just tell me about it. And don’t get too involved.”
Given that reassurance, I didn’t withdraw, I didn’t object, so this became standard, this touching, every meeting we had where I was standing by his desk. He liked my ass, and I learned not to mind. There was no worry about getting caught. It was an old office in an old, stone, financial building, with heavy furniture and solid doors, heavy bookshelves, soundproofing. No one could see or hear anything from outside.
Then one day, during our usual meeting, his hand strayed lower, down my leg. Much lower, down past the skirt to my stockinged leg. And caressed there. Now this was different, much more familiar. Conversation stopped. When his hand came back up, it caught the hem and went on up under my skirt. Not far, but clearly under. Headed up my thigh. On the *out*side of my thigh, yes, but inside clothes. Yikes, this was getting very familiar. I know what it means when a guy reaches under my skirt. Was I to be a plaything as well as a business partner? I waited to see.
I didn’t want this to happen, well I didn’t *think* I wanted it to happen, and I was not encouraging him. I just wasn’t pulling away. Maybe it would stop here. Maybe being felt up a little by the boss was part of the job. My guy always told me what a slinky bitch I was; maybe the boss just couldn’t resist my charms. Ha ha. Right.
The next day, his hand was back on my ass, then my leg. Then the leg nearer him, so it was not on the outside of my thigh anymore, but on the inside. Whoa. And he exerted a little pressure to pull that leg toward him. God, he wanted me to open my legs! This wasn’t just an almost-innocent touch anymore. My legs were not tight together, just standing there, but they were not that wide apart, either. Oh, six inches, maybe a foot. He pulled again. I complied. I moved my knee toward him another foot. He felt higher on my leg, well up my thigh, I could feel the skirt being lifted by his wrist. Omigod he was within a hand’s breadth if the top of my leg. Another few inches and he would be touching my crotch! I had spread my legs to give him room to get to my sex! Sure, I had the pantyhose and panties between his flesh and mine, but still, my boss was feeling me up, on the way up to my pussy.
He didn’t go any farther that day, to my relief. He kept his hand on me, way up high on me, close to the goodies but not quite, and I eventually liked it there. My legs stayed open and his fingers stayed within an inch or two of my crotch. My pussy was aflame with the possibilities. After a minute, we both got used to it, the sexual possibilities demanded less of my attention, and his hand on my thigh even began to feel normal. We went back to the papers and the subject of the meeting.
I had to think about what was going on, what he wanted to do to me, and what I wanted him to do to me. I didn’t want to start a tawdry office affair and then get fired when it went south. This wasn’t a simple situation. He was the boss, so his superiors wouldn’t force him to fire me – because there weren’t any superiors. But it might become a corporate embarrassment nonetheless. Or his wife might find out and go ballistic. And I would be disgraced and thrown out. Tricky.
I talked to my fiance about it that night. I explained to him that it had started as an innocent-seeming togetherness thing but that it had definitely taken a turn toward real sex.
He wanted to hear all about it. Details. How I felt about it. What I wanted. Was this a do-you-want-to-keep-your-job situation? Would I be forced into it? Was I attracted to the guy? Did I want to have an affair? Did I want to get laid during the week because my love life was lacking due to the distance?
“What if he tries to go really up my leg, I mean, farther, all the way up my leg? You know, between my legs?”
“That’s up to you, babe. Did you like him feeling your leg? . . . If this is getting in your way, you have a couple choices. Confront him and stop it. Remove his hand, slap it away. Of course, that might wreck your job if he’s really a horn dog.”
“No, bad idea. I like my job. I want success at this on my resume.”
“Okay maybe just step away and stand farther away from him. Like, on the other side of his desk”
“Maybe. Possible. A little hostile. I don’t want him to think I don’t like working for him.”
“Or, or, if you are enjoying it, then let it go ahead. You know you can. Another step. Do you still feel comfortable with it? Still enjoying it? Then go another step. Until you don’t like it, then stop there.”
“Yeah. How many steps? Does he just want to play with me now and then? Feel me up because I’m young and firm and nearby? I don’t know what his relationship with his wife is like. What if he wants to go much further? I mean, he’s already feeling between my legs, and right next to my sex. What if he wants to get into my pants? Do I let him fondle my crotch? Do I let him get into my pussy, my hole?”
“Hey, relax. One step at a time. Breathe. . . . Relax. . . . Were you excited or creeped out by his hand on your thigh?”
Gulp. “Excited. I was getting hot.”
“Do you want it to go further?”
I chewed my lip. What were my insides telling me? “Yes. Yes? Yes?? . . . Yes, I think so. So do I let him feel me and . . . get under my clothes . . . under *all* my clothes?”
“What are you worried about? Me? Don’t. Babe, if you like it, you can do it. You know that I support whatever you want to do. If you want me to help you look for another job, I’ll do that. If you want me to cheer from the sidelines while you have a little fun and get laid, I’ll do that, too. And I’ll like that one a lot more than the other.”
Okay, one more step. I could go as far as I want and stop when I want. Just no romantic entanglements and no pregnancies.
My getting a little on the side was not a problem for either of us. Not for me nor for him. That was our agreement, our relationship. We were in love, engaged, firmly committed, but we were very adult and open about our sex lives. We recognized that we both had needs while we were apart almost all the time. I had had a few informal relationships, from a couple weeks to a couple months, and so had he. We were a perfect match that way. We wanted to have some fun during the weeks, and fucking is one of the most fun things to do. Playing like that kept us occupied during some of the weeks apart, and provided lots of hot talk when we were together.
NY had an endless supply of men. Mostly married men on the prowl, looking to have an affair. Single girls searching for a real mate found the pickings lean. The guys were all already married – or gay, or arrogant assholes. On the other hand, I didn’t want a relationship to last more than a few weeks or months, so my needs and the available supply were well aligned. So long as the wives were not going to shoot us both in flagrante delicto, it was not a problem.
My guy was always eager to hear the details of my encounters. Who, what, when, where? How much I enjoyed it? How I was touched? Where? Kissed, eaten, fingered? Fucked, top, bottom, doggie? Sat on a face, sucked something, got sucked?
(DC had an endless supply of women, too, for him to play with. But they were mainly single and looking for a husband, so he had to be extra careful about emotional entanglements. And especially pregnancies. Danger, Will Robinson!! As a result, I was having a lot more fun than he was, physically, so he had to enjoy some of my fun vicariously. Sorry, honey.)
He especially loved hearing what I did in public, always more questions for prurient details. Was I kissed, felt up? Hand under clothes, hands *really* under clothes, hands inside me? Moaning in public, orgasm in public? Molested on the subway, felt up, boobs, ass, crotch, over clothes, under clothes, really felt up, fingered, liked it, even fucked? Got peeked at upskirt, got photographed upskirt? Published my own upskirt pics? Published nude pics, made a porno? Flashed my panties, removed panties to flash, removed underwear in public? You get the idea. Everything. He wanted to know anytime sex crossed my brain or heated up my body. I got pleasure out of playing around – twice! The first time when I did what I did. And I got hot all over again talking about it with my honey.
You get the idea. He really wanted details. He was enormously turned on by my sport fucking. Did I fuck myself or get fucked by toys, objects, devices? Who was watching, how many, in public or private? Groups, witnesses? Passed around from man to man? Held while others felt me up, shared willingly or not? What kind of guys, tall, short, thin, fat, young, old, experienced or not? One at a time or more, parties, nudity, stripping? Were there any girls involved, too?
We both were incredibly turned on sharing those details, over the phone or in bed. A ridiculously exhaustive list. No one could do all that stuff.
(You probably recognize some of these activities from our previous stories. I didn’t do *all* these things, of course, or have them all done to me, but I have to admit to a shockingly large proportion of them.)
Such was the main subject of our phone sex and dirty letters. Living apart is Horneyville.
The conversation this night centered on my boss running his hand up my leg and aiming for my crotch. Yes I was a little shocked at first. No I wasn’t upset.
“Did you like his hand on your thigh?”
“Yes, I like the feel of a man’s hand on my thigh. Most of the time. Well almost all the time. Even a grope on the subway.”
“Did you open your legs for him? Did you encourage him to reach way up your leg?”
“Yes I willingly opened my legs for him. Yes I wanted him to go farther up my leg.”
“Did you want him to feel your crotch? To cup your pussy?”
Gulp. Moment of truth. “Yes, in that moment, I wanted him to feel my crotch. I wanted *some*one to press into my crotch. Feel the heat of my crotch. Feel my damp pussy. . . . Oh, god, Yes, I wanted him to feel my pussy.” Ohmigod was I really saying this? What would I do if he did? “But what if he wants to do more than just feel my pussy through the pantyhose. If he wants to get *into* my pussy? I think I would be hot and wet for him.”
There, I said it: Yes I wanted him to get into me, into my pussy, inside my sex. No I wasn’t worried about getting caught, I was smart and careful. No I wasn’t worried about office gossip, this won’t leave the door of his office. Yes I want to let it continue.
“Has he done anything else? Does he kiss you? Hug? Feel you up?”
“No he didn’t kiss me or feel my breasts. And that was odd. Not yet, anyway.”
Yes I felt a little like an object being used. Yes he very much respected me professionally but no I didn’t get an emotional vibe from him.
Yes I’m nervous as hell about it but I want to continue.
“Okay,” he said, “then you have to plan for it. You can’t be too forward, though. From your descriptions, your boss is a real alpha male. He’ll want to pursue an available and somewhat submissive female.”
Right on. Yes, very alpha type. The Boss.
“What’s between you and your goal. Specifically, what’s between him and your pussy?”
“My clothes, what do you think? But I have to wear them in the office. Dress code, you know.”
“Well, pantyhose are clearly an obstacle. Stockings would put less in the way, but you hate stockings and garter belts and they’re probably not in the dress code anyway.”
“Hmmm, possible but dangerous with short skirts these days. I haven’t noticed them on any of the other women, so I don’t think they’re common. Probably considered risque. Maybe not forbidden but dangerous.”
“Okay, well, um, let’s make, um, shall we say, structural modifications to the pantyhose. Cut out the crotch panel. Scissors, easy.”
“Cut them open? But they’re expensive!”
“Who cares? Tell you what. I’ll buy you two pairs, really good ones, for every one you mangle. Okay? Deal?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay, deal. But that doesn’t really clear the path to the goodies, does it?” If I wanted him to play with my pussy, that would mean *inside* my pussy, his fingers in me. As far as we could go with just me standing next to his desk and his hand up my skirt. I got wet just talking about it. But how with more cloth still in the way?
My guy, always the clever engineer, had a solution immediately. Wear my panties *over* the pantyhose rather than under. Not visible, but available! Then I could take them off before or during, or a man could slide them down to uncover the promised land. And the pre-cut hole in the pantyhose would provide a target bullseye right to my lips and clit and hole. Oh, god, he was right, brilliant. If I had worn garter belts more often I would have remembered this from experience: keep the panties outside the garters if you want to take them off easily, like even to go to the bathroom. Duh! If I were just a little more girly-girl, I would have known this myself. Leave it to a guy to plan around the sexual subtleties of women’s underwear.
“One more thing, babe. You haven’t mentioned the real goal here.” Gulp. I knew this was coming. “Here’s a guy, with a hot, slinky girl right next to him. A girl who doesn’t reject his advances. Who accepts his touch, maybe even appears to invite him to touch her, openly, sexually. Who spreads her legs for him when he asks.” Oh, god, he’s right. “Who rearranges her clothes to open the way to her core. What would a guy do?” Gulp. “If I were that guy, I would not stop with just my fingers in her. Guys never stop. I would want to go to bed with that girl.”
Geezuz, he’s right. “Yessss. Yessss,” I whispered.
“If he wants to take you to bed, will you? Will you open up and let him fuck you? You have to know the answer in advance. Do you want him to fuck you?”
“What about you? Do you want him to have me? Do you want this man to fuck me? Your honey? Your future wife? You’re right, I think he wants to have me.” I thought about the three-way relationship. “Do you want this man to possess my body? Do you want to share my pussy with a man you’ve never met? Do you think once he has me, he will want to share my sex even with the man I want to marry?” That was a real question. If he was the jealous type, would he then think I was just one of his personal harem?
Pause. “If you want him to have your body, to possess your pussy, to use your sex – for his pleasure and for yours – that’s your choice. You know I love you and you know I will love you whatever you do with him. Whatever he does to you. You can let him into you anytime you want. . . . Just always come back to me. Come back to me.”
He let that sink in. Yes, of course, I could let him have me, use me, use my body, use my sex. If I got pleasure out of it, we would both enjoy it. Lighten up, lady! It’s just lust, just sport fucking. Not love. He doesn’t want to own me, he just wants to fuck me! “Thank you, my love. Of course,” I whispered in reply.
I didn’t know the answer so much as I felt it. There was a fire in my panties and my vagina was sweating from the heat. “If he wants to take me to bed . . . if he wants to fuck me, then yes, I will let him fuck me. Is that okay, honey? I know this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation, but this is more serious than the last ones.”
“Okay, okay, relax. Yes, it’s more serious. Is that because it’s your boss or because you really want him? Don’t get too attached. Lust, yes; love, no.”
“Right. This makes me so hot. I really want to get laid, and he is so sexy, and the situation is so . . . so . . . hot. So, yes, if he wants to continue beyond a little playing, I will fuck him.”
“Okayyyyy, babe. Be cool. And keep me informed.”
When tomorrow came, I did as he suggested, cut the crotch panel out of my pantyhose. They felt a little looser and cooler when I put them on. And I followed that new instruction. Crotchless pantyhose and my bikini panties *on top* of them. It was a smashing success.
Late afternoon we had our meeting. He pulled me closer, felt me from waist to knee. I opened my legs a little for him when he nudged me to. God, I was nervous. I was sweating a little and shaking a lot. I couldn’t think straight. Here I was, inviting this man to feel between my legs! This powerful man who could scotch my career if he wanted to. The papers on the desk were all but forgotten. I was trying to concentrate on the upsides: pleasure, a new playmate, a rich guy to play with. I had no idea how he might be in bed. Could be kinky or crazy for all I knew at that point. Alphas may be too forceful. Think positive, girl, positive! And open your legs for this adventure.
He felt my butt and leg from my knee, up inside my thigh, up. Up, up, to the crease between leg and buttock. He played along that crease, fondling the top of my thigh.
When he encountered the panties first, he must have understood immediately. He slid them down, not quite far enough for them to be visible outside my skirt. They were stretched tight across my thighs because my legs were so far apart. He reached around the panties, up the last few inches of my thigh. And up there he found my pussy, me, my core, uncovered, naked, hot and wet, waiting for his touch.
And he went between my legs. He found the hole in the pantyhose and felt around it, felt my damp sex through the hole. His fingers went back and forth, pressing into my slit along the lips of my pussy, pushing in, separating the lips. I could feel his finger brushing over my clit, sending thrills into my womb, my belly, my brain. Ohmigod my legs were quaking. I had to lean on the desk. He pushed into my hole. My vagina. My cunt. That’s what it was then, my cunt. Hot, drooling, lusting to be filled. I opened my legs farther. I pushed my hips down to increase the pressure of his fingers that were almost in me.
He slid a finger up and down the gap of my lips. They parted easily for him. They had been waiting for this moment all day. For a couple days. He brushed my clit. I shivered with delight. he rubbed it, back and forth, pinched it. Ohmigod I almost fell down weak with pleasure.
He moved back a little to find my hole. A finger started to push up into me. I swooned. I moaned. I had a small orgasm as soon as his finger entered me, and I cried out. I pushed down onto his hand to force his fingers farther into my vagina. He pumped it a few times, withdrew. I whimpered in frustration, No don’t go. I was rewarded when two fingers pushed back into me. We got into a rhythm, he pushed up into my cunt and I pushed down onto his fucking fingers.
I came quickly. I had to support myself with one hand and cover my mouth with the other to keep from being heard even through the solid door. He looked up at me as he removed his fingers and dramatically sucked my juices off them. He said I was delicious. He was going to plan ways for us to be more intimate together.
He stood up. And hugged me and kissed me for the first time. A hot kiss, all lips and tongues and moans. I plastered my body to his. This would have gone on, I don’t know how long, but we were interrupted by his alarm. Fucking alarm! Time to catch that commuter train back to the wife and kiddies in Stamford! Fuck! FUCK! I picked up my papers, straightened my skirt, hoped that my lipstick wasn’t too smeared, and left.
The conversation that night with my honey was even hotter than the previous one. I told him that I had cut open the pantyhose, so he owed me two pairs of fancy ones. Yes I had a meeting with the boss. Yes he put his hand on me again. Yes I opened my legs for him as he started to feel me. Yes he pulled my panties down and found the hole in the crotch of the hose. Yes he played with my pussy, felt my clit, pushed into my hole, drilled me good. “He finger fucked me, and I came. He fucked your girlfriend with his fingers and she loved it!” No we didn’t discuss it or what comes next. No time, he had to run home.
Would I fuck him? Would I let him fuck me right there in the office?
Probably, if we could be sure not to be discovered. No it would not be tomorrow. But I did want to go further with this.
Aside: I’m getting tired of referring to my boss by his title. He has a name after all, and we were always on a first name basis in the office. He was Van, like Van Morrison. Short for Vance, but, being a marketing/advertising guy, he didn’t want to be associated with Vance Packard. And me, I’m Mikki. Yes, stupid nickname, but the best I could do with “Micheline.” My parents, bless them, named me after my grandfather Michel. What would have been wrong with Michelle, which is a reasonable name? Nope, Micheline, like the tire with an extra E on the end of it. And my brothers and kids at school pronounced it with a hard CH, like CK, so it got shortened to Mikki, the tomboy. I’m not all that girly-girl even now, so maybe Michelle would be too soft anyway. So I’m Mikki. Just one of the guys – but with a hungry pussy, wink, wink. And my fiance – soul mate, life mate, husband, still after all these years – is Danny. So there. End of aside.
My boss-now-lover started planning late meetings, or so he told his family, so he could take a train several hours later than usual. This was a white collar office, and it was pretty empty shortly after five. Half the people were going home and half were in nearby bars for happy hour.
About six we had another meeting. I closed the door and he locked it. We embraced and kissed. For a long time and passionately. It was not the first time we kissed but it was the first time we could be so close so openly. I molded my body to his and he held me tight. His hands were all over my body. He felt my breasts, oddly for the first time; we had always been concentrating below the waist.
He took my hand and led me to the leather sofa. I needed to be fucked and fucked hard and he wanted to satisfy my need. The panties outside the pantyhose were gone in a few seconds. I just kicked off my shoes with the panties, pulled up my skirt, and lay back. He pushed my knees apart and aimed his member at me. His pants had somehow fallen away, ziplessly, I didn’t even notice. All I wanted was that cock that he was pointing at me. I reached for it and pulled it up to my pussy lips. He pushed slowly into me. I was in heaven, the feeling finally of being filled with man meat, I cried out. I held him with arms and legs. He pumped away in my slick sex tube for as long as it took for me to scream my orgasm and him to shoot his load of cum deep into me.
I couldn’t wait to tell my guy about it that night on the phone. He went nuts. “I let him have me today, honey, in the office. He wanted me. I let him fuck me. Your future wife spread her legs and welcomed a strange cock into her cunt! And I loved it and he came in me! Sprayed my insides with his sperm!” He was thrilled. How wonderful! *I* was the one who got laid, I spread my legs for another man to fuck me, I came with another man’s cock in me, I took another man’s sperm into my cunt, I could feel that sperm dripping out of my cunt at that instant – and the love of my life was delighted! He was delighted because I had wanted to get laid, I was hot to get laid, I got laid, and I enjoyed it immensely.
That was his turn-on, that I got fucked and loved it. When I did anything sexual and loved it, he was thrilled. My pleasure was his pleasure. (And vice versa when the occasion arose.) And the more outrageous the better. Another man coming inside me, and me carrying his cum in my hole and my underwear for hours, that was the best.
We talked on the phone for over an hour. The phone lines should have melted. I gave him every detail I could remember. In the heat of passion, it was probably a little blurred. I told him that I still had Van’s cum in me, dripping into my panties. “He fucked your girlfriend, honey. He spread her wide and put his dick into her body and came in her cunt! His cum is still inside her, oozing out.” I reached into my panties, stuck a couple fingers up my hole, and pulled out some of that cum. I told my guy that I had that cum on my fingers, that I had just fingered myself to get it onto my hand. And then I licked it off and told him how tasty it was. I was teasing him to excite him and it worked. He came while I was reaching into myself and licking my fingers and moaning how I loved it. What a slut, eh?
My favorite vibrator had quite a workout that night before I could fall asleep, bless Duracell.
Van and I continued our (we hoped) clandestine affair at the office. We often kissed and embraced, but we had to be careful about that. I didn’t want my lipstick or makeup messed up for anyone else to notice. He loved feeling my breasts, whether a quick grab or a long, kneading fondling. I loved all of that. I was lonely two hundred miles from my honey. I needed to feel close to a man, to feel wanted by a man, and he was the man of the hour.
I usually took my panties off in the ladies room before going to his office for our extended meetings. We tried to conduct real business before getting into playtime. Or should I say before he got into me.
After a few weeks of this, my fiance owed me a lot of fancy stockings to make up for all the pantyhose I sacrificed to give my office lover easy entry to my box. I loved his hand up my skirt. We both loved his finger fucking me at every opportunity to give me my daily dose of orgasm.
We got into a routine of fucking on the sofa one or two nights a week. He made excuses about having late meetings, things like calls with people in other time zones, when he was planning to stay late in the city.
Van was a good lover. He always attended to my needs, tried to make sure I came first. He didn’t just want a blow job and a quick screw. No, he wanted *me*. He made me feel wanted, appreciated, desired, a mate not a plaything. He made me come with his hands or his cock. He wasn’t perfect, of course, like he was not that enthusiastic about eating my box, which I love and I missed. And certainly never when his cum was leaking out of me. So maybe that was part of his alpha-ness. But on the whole, a very satisfying weekday love-in.
We used all the positions the plush sofa would allow. He preferred to drill me from on top. I liked that, too, I felt his hardness deeper inside me that way, and I could feel every pulse when he came. Or I sat on the arm and he drilled me standing up. For variety, I would have him sit on the sofa and I just pull my skirt up to my waist and slide slowly down on his cock. I loved that feeling, too, of controlling this fleshy pole pushing into my body, pumping it, swirling it around. Yum. A few times, he had me leaning over the sofa while he took me from behind, but neither of us enjoyed that as much as face to face. We liked looking at each other, kissing, holding tight.
There were always cum drips on the sofa. Fortunately, they never stained the old leather, not visibly. Sometimes drops or little pools. Sometimes a wet smile imprint of my pussy leaking cum onto my labia and ass. In the desk there were Kleenex and paper towels to wipe off the evidence of our lust. We always tried to remember to clean up.
All through this time, Danny and I were getting together on most weekends when we could afford it. One of us would take the train to the other’s city, and we would spend the weekend half in bed and half in doing city things like restaurants and theaters. Play-sex with Van in the city was one thing. Real love and sex with my honey was another.
There were a few weekends when I had to forego that pleasure because Van stayed in town in a hotel for a convention or meeting that was held there. We spent almost all of Saturday in the hotel, in the bed, screwing all day. Room service be damned; we feasted on each other those days. That was so much fun that he found other excuses to spend the weekend in a hotel in or near the city, so Danny and I missed a few weekends.
Our office trysts also got riskier and riskier. He started to take my clothes off in his office before we settled onto the couch. At first, just my skirt and blouse, to avoid wrinkles and stains. Then everything. Well, almost everything. We both loved it when I kept the crotchless pantyhose on when he drilled me or I rode him. I think it was the slipperiness of my legs and ass in the nylon that excited us about that.
As had to happen eventually, one night the risks went too far. Even though he had locked the door, the cleaning lady decided that night to use her key. Normally, she just passed by if she found the door closed and locked. Not that night. Maybe he regular person was on vacation or something. She took a step into the room and saw the couch. On the couch, a naked woman with her legs spread wide. Between her legs, a man pounding into her with real enthusiasm. I looked away, hid my face. I don’t think she could possibly have recognized me, or even my clothes, which were lying all over the place. She immediately backed out and closed the door. It couldn’t have been more than five or ten seconds, but still, this put a chill on our lust. Surely the whole cleaning crew would know about it within a day. And who would be the most likely suspect for the fuckee on the boss’s couch? Certainly the boss’s young, attractive assistant, me.
We became more circumspect about times, and places, and hiding. This meant later hours. Sometimes it meant disappearing for an “afternoon delight” or evening delight at a nearby hotel. He didn’t care about the cost and we both appreciated the privacy and security. But it did slow us down. On some occasions, I would sit for our meetings rather than stand next to him. I sat opposite him and made sure my skirt was pulled up enough for him to see my pussy under it. When I approached to hand him the reports of the day, he would fondle my tit or take a quick journey up my skirt to get his fingers wet. Our kisses became more quick pecks rather than long, passionate tongue wrestling.
And after almost five months, it just faded. He went back to going home on the early train. I still wore my altered pantyhose, still took my panties off to show him my pussy, but he drilled me less often, less deeply, less hard. The last time he had me was in a hotel on an afternoon. He told me it was the last time, and I knew it. I cried. He did, too, a little. No recriminations, no harsh words. Just sadness that our fun affair was ending. We would both have to look for new lovers.
I think Danny was relieved when it ended. This affair had gone on too long and there might have been a danger of some emotional involvement. I really liked Van. We were very close. I didn’t love him, not romantically. Playmate, plaything, but not romantic lover. We never got together again. He might give me a pat on the ass now and then when no one was looking, but mostly we were “just business.”
I continued as his staff guy for two more years until I left the company. In the meantime, there were other adventures, even another lover in the same company. But that’s another tale for later.
On to the next chapter of my love life and sex life.
– Ms. Screwloose; edited by Mr. Screwloose