A code that keeps me prisoner.

A code that limits all that I might be.

Looking up the length of your nakedness, bathed in candlelight, framed in shadows … watching her as she languorously kissed your glistening mouth, as she caressed the sweeping curves of your breasts, and all the time with the succulence of your sex at the mercy of my libertine’s fingers, my rake’s lips and tongue. It was an epicure’s feast for each one of my senses. Such sweet sensuality. Such delicious decadence. Lust coursed through me like fire, that night, its bestial roar echoing in my mind, daring me, spurring me on.

Oh, that urge to unzip myself, to plunge my aching cock into the velvet depths of your sodden cunt without invitation or encouragement from you or from her … that longing was intoxicating, drowning, nearly impossible to resist.

Now I know what compulsion feels like, tastes like.

The marks my teeth left inside my cheeks and lips linger still.

But somehow, that cursed sense of propriety persevered, kept its pious claws in my soul, rending, tearing as it dragged me back from the brink, when every atom of my being yearned to thrust forward with abandon.

I think back now, to the vision of the three of us in the quiet living room, before the bedroom’s siren call finally won out. You sprawled across the leather sofa, the satin of your dress drawn down to expose your breasts and their peaks of russet, pushed up to your waist to bare the creamy vulnerability of your thighs and the wetness of your shaven cunt. Those memories evoke lust in an instant, raise my insatiable flesh to follow.

How could I resist giving into my lust?

How did I resist?

Fucking propriety.

I know what I wanted. I know. To plunge my naked cock inside you, to fuck you hard, greedily, ruthlessly, while she watched and you gasped, not giving a damn about lasting, not giving a damn about anything but how good it felt, taking my pleasure with you, from you, thrusting into the heart of your heat until I trembled and exploded, my glans tight against your womb as my seed flowed, hot and guiltless, coating your cervix, slickening the length of your sex. Then, spent, I should have withdrawn from you, entwined my fingers in her hair, drawn her mouth down to my loins and made her lap every trace of our fucking from my subsiding flesh. And then I should have pressed her face between your thighs, guiding her tongue between your labia, holding her there until she’d drunk every drop of me from the chalice of your cunt.

Cursed propriety. I will banish thee one day.

I always think of you as a night creature, sultry darkness your natural habitat.

In my febrile imagination, your eyes glistened as you read the message she’d typed to you:

HIS THICK COCK IS DEEP INSIDE MY WET CUNT, FUCKING ME SLOWLY. I MADE HIM FUCK MY CLIT WITH HIS COCKHEAD FIRST, UNTIL I’D COME TWICE AND MY JUICES SOAKED THE SHEET BENEATH MY ARSE. DO YOU WISH YOU WERE HERE TO TASTE ME RIGHT NOW?

As I eased my length in and out of her copious wetness, I wondered what, if anything, you might send by way of reply. Would you have replied at all? If you had, what would you have said? Perhaps you wouldn’t have settled for stabbing out a reply on your keypad. That was what I yearned for: you to call us, so that you could hear exactly what I did, the aural landscape of her pleasure, the sighs and groans and gasps that make me burn as brightly now as they did the first time I heard them. How quickly would that have excited you? How quickly would that have made you wet? Would you have been able to resist slipping your hand between your thighs, stroking your moist desire as I stroked hers? In my fantasy, you and she came in perfect synchronicity: stereo eruptions of pleasure, separated by miles yet tied together by microwaves.

In the end, the phone remained unused upon the low bedside table, my concern that my game might compromise you, or splinter her mood, too great for me to disregard.

Instead, I said to her in a low voice, “Confess something to me. Tell me something sexual about yourself that I never knew before.”

I saw her frown form, watched her expression begin to twist. Immediately, I told her that I didn’t mind going first. Her relief was palpable.

“Tell me,” she whispered as my glans continued to explore the depths of her sex.

“I fantasise about you with Emily.”

“Doing what?” She knew there was something more. With me, there is always something more.

“I imagine watching as the two of you seduce someone together.”

A rather breathless, “Who?”

“Sometimes it’s a woman in her mid-twenties. Other times, it’s an inexperienced boy of nineteen or twenty.”

She gasped at my words, and I shivered deliciously from knowing that some part of my fantasy thrilled her too. The quickening of my thrusts was automatic, inexorable.

“And where are you while this is happening?”

“Watching from the sidelines. Entirely passive. A studious voyeur.”

She laughed. “Entirely passive? You? Never.”

“If it’s the boy, then yes, until after you’ve sent him away. If it’s the woman … I’ll wait until I’m invited to participate.”

She came for a third time, hard, the maddeningly soft walls of her cunt suddenly forming an opulent vice about my cock, milking me until my seed spurted deep inside her. We fell asleep like that, spent and drained.

She never told me what images danced through her mind as she orgasmed that last time. I can only hope that they shared some likeness with the reveries that possessed me then, that still grip me relentlessly.

Hopefully, they’re reveries that will come to haunt you too.

Oh God…

Now I am very hot and very wet. How can words stir the imagination so? I find it incredible.

~Is it the words? Or the mind behind the words? Or the promise behind the mind?

All three, I think. Of course, I have a wonderful imagination, and that always helps where words are concerned. You of all people should know that.

~You think so? I’m just a humble wordsmith.

Pull the other one.

~Oh, I’d like to pull them both. An ankle in each hand, raising them high as I plunge deep into your cunt, my full length, all the way inside you to your womb.

See? There’s nothing humble about you. You’re a magician; a weaver of lust.

~I’m flattered.

And now I’m going to bathe, because I have a distinct air of eau-de-Boeing about me. Having to travel for business is such a pain.

~Mmmm.

Mmmm? Bathing or Boeing?

~Both. I’m thinking of you naked in your bath, and at the same time, I’m imagining you sprawled across a First Class seat, your blouse ripped open, the cups of your bra pulled down to reveal your breasts and your hard nipples, your skirt pushed up to your waist so that your stockinged thighs are exposed, your legs parted to allow me between them, and your lacy panties dragged hastily to one side so that my hard cock can find its way inside your soaking cunt.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve imagined that … the most recent being just last night.

~What was the inspiration for last night’s reverie?

The thought of you … taking me in that very scenario.

~You’ve flattered me again, Madame….

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She’s his lodestone. Always has been.

“Are you still awake?” he whispers.

Her sleepy affirmation is a siren call to his lust.

He reaches out and traces her spine with a fingertip, from the nape of her neck to the rich bounty of her womanly arse. He gently probes the beginning of the tight valley between her cheeks, revelling in her warmth. He grows harder, thicker.

Softly, he runs one hand across her body: her shoulders, her back, her waist, her hips. He draws five parallel lines along the backs of her thighs and over her derrière. He cups the softness of her belly, then slips his hand upwards to capture one glorious breast, delighting in the hard peak that tickles and caresses the centre of his palm.

He presses his lips to the back of her neck. “I’m going to take you gently,” he murmurs against her skin.

“Mmmmm.”

He licks his fingers, moistens the underside of his shaft, aligns it with the valley between her cheeks. He thrusts slowly, his cock gradually parting her buttocks as he moves against her. He continues to caress her body with his fingertips and his palm, remembering how – in the days when she vetoed infiltration because the thick, coppery blood flowed – she would stretch out before him and offer herself to him like this. She would slather his cock in oil until it glistened and dripped, and then urge him to fuck, to piston himself within the tight furrow she offered him, until he erupted barrenly into the damp hollow of her back.

He thrusts and caresses until he feels that she is pressing back to meet him. He knows then that she is ready for the next.

Carefully, he slips his hand between the tops of her thighs, feeling a cautious path towards her sex. Her labia are filling, but not full; her sex is damp, but not wet. He withdraws, licks his fingertips, slips his hand back between her thighs and draws fresh parallels across the surface of her cunt. His middle finger presses deeper, parting her, finding the delicate pinkness within. She gasps. He presses deeper still, to the second knuckle, making her sigh for the first time.

Her heat is tantalizing. He yearns to burn within her.

He kisses her shoulder, her arm, her back, thrusting steadily against her cheeks all the while. The wetness is coming now, coating his fingers in viscous silver. He withdraws his hand, strokes himself, transferring her juices to his cockhead and the upper part of his shaft. He slips his cock between her thighs, so that his shaft lies along her widening cleft, and the corniced cockhead rests against her clitoris.

Slowly, he begins to thrust again.

To begin with, she is entirely passive, content to let his flesh graze against hers. Occasionally, the sliver of a sigh escapes her lips, and each time it does, he feels his cock grow fractionally harder. The sound of her pleasure always stirs him to his core.

Gradually, she begins to respond to him in earnest.

One of his hands holds the back of her neck, his fingers entwined in her mane. The other hand rests against her hip, holding her in place as he thrusts. Her body is as taut as a bow, and he feels her flex as she presses herself down to meet him. The sighs that escape her are soon no longer slivers; they’re fully articulated words of pleasure, words that have no need of letters or grammar. As he continues to glide across her, the words become entire sentences. His excitement grows exponentially as he listens to hers flower.

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Oh, yes.”

She doesn’t need to say aloud that she wants him to move faster, harder. Her body is speaking for her now. He answers its call, glans flashing across her clitoris with vigour, passion, naked lust. His flesh is flirting with his self-control. He imagines himself climaxing like this, outside of her, against her, each surge of come coating the outside of her cunt, running down into her sodden cleft, oozing deep inside her. He pictures her stirring his semen into her flesh, pressing it deeper and deeper inside her, bringing herself to another delicious orgasm with her come-slick fingers, as his seed finds its way to her womb.

He has to bite down hard to bring himself back under control.

“Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes.”

She climaxes hard, noisily, grinding herself down onto his cock throughout. Then she opens herself wide, casts her uppermost thigh towards him, across him. Before, his thrusts were constrained, guided by the tightness of her thighs to where she needed them. Now she is giving him the freedom to explore her as he desires. She is offering him the delights of her cunt.

He restrains himself, continuing to thrust his glans back and forth across her swollen clitoris. She reaches down, cupping the underside of his shaft and holding him to her, urging his hard flesh against hers. “Don’t stop,” she cries softly, and he gives her precisely what she craves, fucking her to a second orgasm.

Now she guides his glans across her labia, the petals of her sex slick with their lust. She groans contentedly, then slips him down until his cockhead finds the most intimate portal she possesses. He hesitates briefly, then plunges deep within her.

This time, she softly cries, “Oh fuck!”, as he groans and growls with guttural relief.

Still he thrusts slowly, with agonising control. The darkness emboldens him, fuels his voice.

“What would you say to Emily if she were here now?”

Long seconds pass, and he wonders if she will answer him at all. Then she speaks. “I’d tell her to lick my clitoris and my cunt; tell her to lick your cock where you enter me.”

“Talk to her. Speak to her as though she was here.”

“Lick me,” she says in that low, sultry voice she uses when the fire in her imagination is as bright and as hot as the flames consuming her body. “Lick my cunt, Emily. Taste me. Kiss and lick and suck my clit, make me come while he fucks me. Now lick him, lick my juices from his hard cock. Suck his balls and feel how full and heavy they are against your tongue. Smell the scent of our fucking while you lick us and finger yourself, then wipe your own juices across his mouth and then mine. Press your cheek against his shaft as he comes, feel him throb and pulse against your skin. Now pull his cock aside and plunge your tongue inside me, so you can drink me, drink him, drink us. Taste this lust we’ve made together.”

He should have known. Her brazen wantonness tips him over the edge, sends him careening out of control. He comes hard and long, the contractions in his cock so deep his eyes squeeze closed. He cries out, loud enough to raise the impotent.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pulling her tight against him.

She settles her cheek against his chest. “And now I know what wish to grant you next time.”

Anyway, onto the post…

Reports
1. You can now follow me on Twitter if you care to. Don’t worry: I don’t bombard followers with the minutia of which marmalade I like on my toast, or how I’ve just changed the ribbon on my typewriter for the third time that week.

2. If you have a thing for the visual delights of artistically-posed, semi-nude or entirely nude women, you can compare your tastes to my own at Things to excite the Easily Aroused. As a bonus, each day’s new entry comes with a smidgen of wit or sage advice, gleaned from the annals of mankind. (NSFW)

3. Similarly, if you also have a taste for the imagery of erotic situations of all sorts of persuasions, you can feed your senses every other day at Substratum. (*Definitely* NSFW)

4. If you’re already giving thought as to what reading material you should take away with you on your vacation this summer, I would whole-heartedly recommend both this and this.

Requisitions
1. I posted a mini-poll a while back, which I only linked to via Twitter. As a consequence, I haven’t had nearly as many results as I would like. Would anyone care to assist me?

2. Following my last erotica post, I’ve noted that some readers enjoyed the fact that it was a return to established characters. I even invited one reader to let me know if there were any other stories that she’d like to see revisited. I’d like to make that an open invitation to all my readers. I can’t promise to oblige all requests: there’s going to have to be sufficient inspiration to excite my interest. However, that inspiration can come from you just as easily as from the existing characters. Enough said?

3. Similarly, I’ve just realised that my ‘Best of EA‘ page is a little out of date, and in need of some sprucing up. It occurred to me that it might be nice to also have a ‘Readers Recommend’ page of favourite story titles. Over to you…

4. Unbelievably, in just twelve days, this blog will reach its fourth anniversary. Simple question: how do I celebrate? Answers on a post card, in a comment, or (if it’s super saucy) via an email.

Thanks for your assistance … and keep your eyes open for pleasurable opportunities.

“It’s open,” she calls out. The impatience in her voice is clear, even to her.

Carter walks inside and closes the door. He doesn’t wait for her to tell him to lock it. The sound of the bolt clicking into place sends a delicious pulse of sensation radiating out from her loins.

It isn’t difficult for her to keep the pleasure out of her expression, though. “You’re late.”

“I’m sorry. Traffic. There was another accident on the A22. ”

She watches his blue eyes for any glimmer of deceit. She prides herself on her skills as a poker player, has accumulated enough winnings over the years to trust herself as a judge of character, as someone who can spot a bluffer’s tell from across the green baize. His gaze meets hers candidly, as he stands waiting on the other side of her desk. If there’s deception at hand, she can’t see it. But that might only mean that he’s good. More than good.

The thought sends another pulse of decadent pleasure through her.

He leans forward, places his hands flat against the polished surface of her desk. “So? Are we going to the hotel tonight?”

“I don’t have the time.”

“You never do.” He smiles thinly.

This again? she thinks.

“I’m a busy woman.”

“And I’m a busy man.”

Touché. “Then wouldn’t it be a pity if we wasted more time?”

He laughs. “I sometimes forget how very direct you can be.”

“When I see something that I want.”

His thin smile becomes instantly rakish. Sometimes, on those occasions that she thinks about him when she masturbates, it gives her the most pleasure to think of him as a rake; a libertine, whose only genuine interest is in gratifying his own desires, in exploring the delightful mysteries of new women, of new flesh. Part of her suspects that’s the real reason he’s late tonight: another woman. Yet even that thought is exciting to her.

I’m becoming such a whore, she thinks, and then finds herself excited by that thought too.

She stands up and walks around the desk to him. His mouth tastes vaguely of warm coffee. She can’t smell any perfume lingering on him, but it doesn’t stop the suspicions. He pulls her against him as their kiss deepens, his strong hands gripping her buttocks through her skirt, forcing her mound against the delicious hardness inside his trousers.

She slides her mouth away from his. “You’re pleased to see me then?”

He chuckles against the side of her neck. “I’m always pleased to see you, Georgina.” The vibrations of his speech against her skin send delectable shivers coursing down her spine. She presses herself against him even harder.

He stitches a line of tight kisses along the side of her throat, releasing his hold on her arse so he can undo several of her blouse’s buttons. He eases the opening wider and plants another kiss in the hollow of her clavicle.

“You smell wonderful,” he breathes.

“You feel wonderful.”

“And you want me inside you, don’t you? Right now?” She can’t see his triumphant smile, but she hears it just as clearly.

“You know I do. You conceited bastard.”

He laughs, and then his hands are on the buttons of her blouse again.

“No,” she says. She covers his hands with her own and pulls them away.

He draws back to regard her. “No?”

“No, not your way. My way.”

He grins sardonically. “What do you want?”

“Sit down,” she tells him. He nods slowly, then begins to move around her desk to the high-backed leather chair, where she’d seated him the first time she tasted him, all those months ago.

“No,” she says again.

He stops; there’s a look of bemusement and mild annoyance on his face. The bulge in the front of his trousers reassures her that she still holds his attention.

“Sit there,” she tells him, pointing to one of the guest chairs in the centre of the office. “Turn it around so that the back’s to my desk.”

His gaze narrows, but he complies with her instructions. Yes, he’s a conceited bastard, but in the end, when she presses hard, he always does as he’s told. Perhaps that’s the real reason she finds him so alluring.

She stands before him, hands upon her hips, her stiletto-heeled feet planted a foot apart. She’s wearing her grey two-piece suit again, the same one she wore the first time she got down on her knees before him and slid his splendidly thick cock into her greedy mouth. How many times has she feasted upon him since that fateful day? Four? Half a dozen?

Mmmmm.

“Now what?” he asks.

“Now you watch,” she says. The blinds are already drawn, only the office’s reading lamps turned on. She slips the jacket from her shoulders and drops it onto the floor beside her. She reaches behind herself for the zip on her skirt, and the crackle as she draws it down raises Goosebumps across her skin.

I am so fucking wet, she realises.

The lining of her skirt hisses as it slides down her long legs. She reaches behind herself again, releases the clasp on the back of her brassiere with a practiced twist of her fingers. The bra joins the rest of her clothes on the floor. She hooks her thumbs into the thin waistband of her thong, and eases it down her thighs, until gravity takes over the task for her.

Nude except for her shoes and her black stockings, she steps out of the pool of clothing at her feet, and once more stands with her hands upon her hips, her feet planted a foot apart.

“Well?”

“Breathtaking,” he says in an awed voice.

She walks to him, straddles his thighs, settles herself over his knees. She reaches down and takes his hands in hers, guiding them to her full breasts. There had been a time when she’d questioned the appeal of her voluptuousness, when she’d doubted the allure of her curves. The doubts have long since been banished, but the look of naked desire in Carter’s eyes – in the eyes of her other lovers – is all the reminder that she could ever need.

Carter moulds her yielding flesh to his grasp, bows his head and presses his lips to her breasts, showering them in kisses. He licks the pads of his thumbs and then brushes them across the crowns of her hard nipples, making them swell yet more. He circles her areola with moistened fingertips, and then retreads his path with the velvety roughness of his tongue. She sighs, cradling his head, holding his mouth against her flesh. She longs to slip herself sideways, so that her cunt presses firmly against one of his thighs, so that she can slide herself back and forth, satisfying some meagre part of the ache simmering within her loins. She doesn’t though: she doesn’t want to stain his new Boss suit.

Instead, she pulls one of his hands from her breasts, lifts it to her mouth and wantonly licks the tips of his fingers. Then she guides the moistened digits between her thighs, pressing them firmly against her seemingly molten cunt.

As his fingers find her sex, she fancies that she hears dampness sizzling.

He finds the swelling of her clitoris, circles it with a single fingertip, then slowly strokes across its centre from south to north. She gasps out softly, and he repeats the gesture, again and again and again and again, until she bucks uncontrollably against him.

“Oh, God,” she cries, and then she kisses him with savage intensity, thrusting her tongue into his mouth.

She breaks their kiss again, her tongue seeking out the vulnerabilities of his ear as he eases two fingers inside her sodden cunt.

“I want your cock,” she groans. “Take it out for me.”

“Get up,” he says, “so I can take my trousers-”

“No. Just take it out for me. Now. Please.”

She traces the edges of his earlobe with the tip of her tongue as she feels his hands move to his groin, as she listens to his zip being dragged open. She glances down into the space between them and sees his thick shaft reaching out for her through the opening of his fly.

“That’s so fucking beautiful,” she whispers, at least as much to herself as to him. Without another word, she raises herself up, slips forward so her wanton cunt is poised above his burnished cockhead, and then descends avariciously.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans as he enters her heat, her velvet grip.

“Oh, yes!” she cries out as she feels his thickness opening her, filling her.

She waits, content for now to be embedded upon him, savouring the sensation of being so gloriously full. Then she begins to slowly rise and fall along the length of his indurate flesh. She climbs until only the very tip of his glans remains within the folds of her sex; there she pauses, the muscles in her thighs bunched and trembling. She waits only for the briefest time, as long as either of them can bear. Then she swoops again, engulfing him in her silken wetness, until she feels him against her womb, and her clitoris is pressed hard against his pubis. Soon, the room is filled with a chorus of lustful sighs and gasps, and after a time, she realises that she is the solo vocalist.

A rivulet of perspiration runs down from her neck, draws a glistening line along the centre of her spine, and then disappears into the valley between her buttocks.

Eventually, Carter slips his hands from her breasts to her hips, pulling her into his thrusts. She doesn’t try to stop him, even though she finds it distracting, a disruption to the finesse of her rhythm. Instead, she surrenders herself to his animal need, and in doing so, reignites her own. She grinds herself down onto him faster and faster, her movements losing their grace in the heat of her frantic need, and acquiring a fresh, raw beauty.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wonders what she looks like when she fucks with such frenzied passion.

Next time, I’ll set up a camera in the room. Should I ask him first, though? Tell him?

She finds that the prospect of keeping it a secret from him excites her most.

Inside her, his cock is tense, beginning to tremble. Soon it will begin to throb and pulse. She reaches behind and beneath herself to cup his balls, heavy with the come that will douse the fire in her flesh.

Some of the fire.

He groans at her caresses.

“I can’t hold back,” he says, relief and bitterness competing in his voice.

“Don’t!” she implores. “Don’t hold back! Come in me. Come with me.”

“Fuck, yes!”

He pulls her down sharply onto his length, his nails digging into her as his hands convulse. She feels the throb of his orgasm through the walls of her cunt, feels the warm seed spurting into her, flowing downwards, coating them both in its viscosity.

It’s the final ingredient, the trigger for her own climax.

She comes screaming.

They stay in that position for a while; she balanced in his lap, his cock dwindling inside her, his strong hands holding her waist and his damp face pressed into her cleavage. After a time, the fever within her subsides to the point where she’s able to realise that she’s cold and beginning to ache. If this were an anonymous en-suite at the Holiday Inn in Brighton, they could have adjourned to the bathroom now, caught their breath beneath the steamy, cascading warmth of the shower, allowed their soapy caresses to start to linger, reinvigorating their lust, beginning the cycle afresh.

But they’re not in the Holiday Inn.

Fuck.

The thought of the warm shower is making her feel colder. She shivers as she climbs off him. She turns away to gather her clothes, but not before she realises that she’s stained his new Boss suit after all. She smiles.

In the end, he spends longer in the adjoining bathroom than she does. When he emerges, his trousers are sponged clean. He’s clearly trying to mask his annoyance. He pulls her to him again, kisses her with something akin to passion, but this time, the stiffness she feels is in his lips, in his arms. With the abruptness of a switch being clicked from ‘on’ to ‘off’, she thinks that he may be done with her. That’s OK though: she might be done with him too.

They make tentative arrangements to meet again before they say goodnight. Even as they check their diaries, she wonders which of them will cancel first. She waits five minutes after the door closes behind him before she leaves herself. She calls home to say that she’s on her way, and checks her appearance in the bathroom mirror one last time. Immaculate. No one would ever suspect.

And tomorrow…

She locks the door and heads towards the car park, a shameless smile upon her lips.

Who knows what adventures tomorrow will bring?

~You’ll be going over my knee at this rate.

I can’t think of a better place to be. I’m a little surprised though. You really have a desire to make my cheeks rosy?

~I do. I think I’d like to warm you up a little, to have you wriggling with sensation.

Sounds lovely. And you’d derive pleasure from said wriggling?

~I would. Naturally, you’d be sans panties, and I’d allow my hand to linger every fourth or fifth stroke, so that my fingers slipped between your thighs to see how full your lips were, how wet you were inside.

Oh my.

~I’ll draw my fingertips over the plump flesh of your labia, slip them delicately inside your cleft, moisten them with your lust, then spread your juices across the cheeks of your arse with the next four or five strokes of my palm.

Have you any idea how much I would enjoy that?

~I have a suspicion you might take some pleasure from such an experience.

So long as it’s a mutually pleasurable experience.

~It will be. I’ll pull the belt from my trousers and bind it around your wrists, locking them into the small of your back. Then I’ll press you down onto your knees on the bed so that you’re facing away from me. Your cunt will be so wet, and it will only get wetter as you listen to me undressing behind you, as you hear the last of my clothes fall to the floor. You’ll feel me move behind you as I kneel on the bed, feel my hands grip the cheeks of your arse, feel my glans pressing into your sodden cleft, and then my hard cock plunging deep into your cunt without invitation.

Oh God. I can feel you, feel every inch sliding in and out.

~Can you feel my heavy, come-laden balls against your clitoris as I enter you to the hilt?

Oh, yes! And I can hear your voice telling me what you want to do.

~Hear my voice telling you to press back against me? Hear me telling you to say whatever you want, to ask for whatever you want, to beg for whatever you want.

Yes. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Don’t stop.

~Not even when I’m close to coming?

No, don’t stop. Fill me with your hot come.

~You want my come?

Yes, all of it. Every last drop.

~And what then?

Then I’ll lick you clean, and suck you hard again. Unless you have other ideas?

~None whatsoever.

Then, Sir, your wish is my command.

~What else do you want?

Everything … that’s what I want. What I crave.

~Then, Ma’am, your wish is my command.

I find it quite amazing how you manage to release my inner slut.

~It’s a gift or a curse, depending on how you view these things.

I’ll go with gift…

“Come in,” she says eventually, in her firm, business-like tone.

He walks in and walks purposefully towards her desk, right hand already offered towards her, his brilliantly white smile threatening to sear her vision.

“I’m Bruce Carter, from KM Industries. It’s very good to meet you, Mrs Wilde.”

“Ms Wilde,” she corrects him as she stands to accept his hand. The truth is, she’s been married for almost two decades, but her career has been built on her own name, her standing as a woman in her own right. In this setting, her marriage is irrelevant, and this man has no need to know anything but whatever image she chooses to present him with.

“My apologies,” her visitor says, managing to keep his expression mostly free of embarrassment. She’s grudgingly impressed by his control.

She offers him a seat on the opposite side of her desk. “So what happened to Williamson?” she asks

Carter frowns for a few seconds as he settles himself. “Williamson? Oh yes. He left rather suddenly. I believe he went to work for a new company. In Japan, if memory serves.”

Ms Wilde raises her eyebrows questioningly. “Tony’s gone up in the world then?”

Carter smiles the easy, polished smile of the diplomat as he shrugs. “Pastures east, anyway. Personally, I imagine moving upwards from KM would be difficult.”

Ms Wilde answers his diplomat’s smile with one of her own. And I imagine you know just how easy it would be to move upwards from KM, if the right opportunity presented itself, you smooth bastard.

He’s a smooth bastard with looks, too; blue eyes, hollowed cheeks and clean shaven square jaw. Six feet tall, and a lean frame beneath his well-cut navy blue suit. There’s a boyish comma of dark brown hair drooping down over his right eyebrow, but otherwise, he looks like a man in his late twenties, maybe his early thirties. Around ten or fifteen years younger than herself she surmises. She finds herself gazing into his azure eyes. Yes, a smooth, good-looking bastard, who knows it only too well.

From nowhere, the image of Anne Bancroft as sultry Mrs Robinson comes into her head. She tries to still her imagination, but the thought is quickly becoming physical. She tries shifting in her seat as nonchalantly as she can, but she’s painfully aware of the sudden bloom of heat between her thighs, the growing plumpness within her lace panties. He smells good too. Crisp. Fresh. Boss? Calvin Klein?

She swallows carefully before she speaks again. “So, Bruce … am I going to enjoy the same relationship with you as I did with Tony?”

He smiles: charming, wolfish, predatory. It serves only to intensify the feelings of heat and fullness in her loins. “I’m not sure, Ms Wilde. I don’t know what sort of relationship you and Tony enjoyed.”

She studies his handsome face. There’s a marked twinkle in his eyes, a wicked glimmer of what if.

What if?

She shakes her head mentally. Stick to business, you silly bitch. You’re a woman, not a simpering teenager. “Tony and I were able to forge a highly successful relationship, Bruce, one based upon trust and mutual advantage.”

“Then I think there’s every chance we can enjoy the same sort of relationship, Ms Wilde.”

“Call me Georgina.”

He nods acceptingly. “Naturally, in the current financial climate, I think it’s only prudent that we review the figures for the coming quarters and explore the possibility of making a few necessary changes…”

She watches as he releases the clasp on his briefcase and draws out a thick sheaf of white A4 pages. A part of her feels like she’s a third person in the room, floating above the desk, watching their exchange as they debate the figures he lays out before them. It’s an entirely new experience for her. She’s fully conscious of everything Carter is saying to her, entirely capable of questioning or contradicting him when necessary … yet at the same time, she’s unable to clear the image of tearing open his crisp white shirt from her mind, of running her tongue slavishly down his firm abdomen to the waistband of his trousers, her manicured fingers stroking and fondling the firmness beneath.

She’s aware that she’s becoming moist.

The meeting lasts for half an hour. At the end, he stands, smiles, hands her his business card. She sees the ‘what if’ twinkle in his eyes again, just before he turns to leave. The door to her office closes, and she watches his back recede through the frosted window. She’s not moist any longer; she’s wet. Soaking.

“Bastard,” she whispers, before she locks the office door and heads towards her private bathroom.

 
She waits a few hours before she sends a text message to the mobile phone number on his business card. The office is empty now, the rest of the staff gone home. It’s her habit to remain behind, clearing up the day’s business, preparing for the next. She knows that she won’t be disturbed.

Her hand shakes a little as she keys in the message.

“Thank you for your time today, Bruce. I appreciated your efforts, especially your attention to detail. I look forward to further co-operations with you. Georgina Wilde.”

It’s a long ten minutes before she receives her reply.

“You’re very welcome, Georgina. It was my pleasure. If there’s anything that you need, just let me know.”

She wonders about the last part of the message. Is it simply an honest business courtesy? Or is there a second meaning lying beneath the words? She wonders if she should send him a second message now, or if she should wait to see what he does.

What if he does nothing? What if he’s waiting for you to make the first tangible move?

Her hands bunch into fists and she bangs them against the top of her desk. You’re being a simpering teenager again, she chides herself. And you’re thinking like a whore as well.

Yet the urge to type in a second message is strong, almost overwhelming. Her husband… Her mouth turns down bitterly when she thinks of him. When was the last time he’d held her ardently, told her how much he desired her, wanted her, needed her? When was the last time he had made love to her with passion and conviction, fucked her greedily, ruthlessly, as though he couldn’t help himself?

Her sex is full again, desperate to be touched and caressed and pleasured.

When was the last time he made me feel like this?

Yes, there was guilt. Guilt at allowing herself to become so easily distracted and enflamed by a total stranger. Guilt at trying to justify her effortless lust by blaming her inattentive husband. But there was desire too, burning brilliantly in her core, and its siren flame was too much for the gossamer wings of her conscience to resist.

She started typing again.

“Bruce, I feel confident that you’ll be able to assist me in the near future.”

She reads and re-reads the message before she sends it. Is it sufficiently nondescript to pass for a genuine business message, if she’s misread that twinkle in his eye? She hopes so. Her thumb stabs out at the send key. She watches the message move from her outbox to her sent messages folder, and swallows hard.

She only has to wait a couple of minutes this time.

“It’s a pity that I’m not staying in London this evening. We could have met for dinner and discussed business in more detail.”

Again, she’s gripped by indecision. It’s quite possible that he means exactly what he says, that there’s no lustful agenda behind his words. She thinks of the ‘what if’ glimmer in his dark eyes, bites her lip, and begins typing her third message.

“Why don’t we meet tomorrow to discuss our options further? My schedule is full all day, but if it’s convenient, we could meet at my office after 6pm.”

He replies within seconds.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
 

 
The knock at her office door comes at 6.10pm exactly. She almost jumps at the sound, even though she’s expecting it, has been waiting anxiously for it since the last of the staff left over half an hour ago. Outside, the horizon has taken on the layered hues of sunset, and the sky overhead is darkening through blue towards black.

“Come in,” she says straight away.

He opens the door and steps inside.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

He looks less confident this time, almost hesitant. As he turns to press the door closed behind him, her eyes flicker to the back of his left hand. The fourth finger is devoid of wedding band. She feels her pulse accelerate. Her belly is a jumble of nervousness and anticipation.

He walks over to the very spot where he’d stood a little more than a day ago.

“So?” he asks, a little of his confidence returning as he looks down at her. She’d dressed conservatively for the office, a grey two piece suit with a white cotton blouse. Once certain that she was alone, she’d hung her jacket over the back of her chair and unbuttoned her blouse. She’s sufficiently self-aware to know that her full cleavage is an attention grabber, a real crowd pleaser. His gaze lingers over her breasts, and her concern that he might actually have come here to discuss business finally disappears.

She gets up and crosses the office to the door. She carefully locks it, then closes the blinds.

She walks slowly back to him. She’s not a short woman, and she’s wearing a pair of her highest heels, three inch stilettos in black leather. Even so, she almost has to stand on tip-toes to kiss him. Up close, he smells of the same clean, crisp scent she’d found so appealing yesterday. His lips are warm, soft-yet-firm, excitingly masculine. They readily match the laconic pace of her kiss. She was wet just from waiting for him; now she feels as though her whole sex has become warm liquid. Her panties have already been secreted in her handbag, and she wonders if he can smell her excitement. The thought that he might be able to makes her shiver.

Slowly, he breaks their kiss.

“This sort of thing has never happened to me before,” he says in a hushed voice.

She smiles. “Me neither.”

She takes his hand, leads him around the desk to her high-backed leather chair. She presses him down into the seat with a hiss, and then settles her full buttocks against the edge of her desk. When he looks up into her face, his expression is a blend of lust and bewilderment. She can’t recall ever feeling this way, a trembling mass of vulnerability and power.

Her fingers undo his silk tie and strip it away from his neck. She drops it with a casualness she does not feel onto the desk behind her, and then sets about unbuttoning his shirt. When she peals the two halves of cotton aside, the torso beneath is as lean as she’d imagined, the muscles in his abdomen barely concealed beneath his lightly tanned skin. A thin line of dark hair naturally leads her eye down from his chest to his navel and beyond.

Her greedy eyes find the outline of his hardness through the front of his trousers.

She traces him with a fingertip, eliciting the gasp of surprise and pleasure she’s been fantasising about hearing. If there was the time, she would happily spin this out, tease him until he was trembling like she was, until the perspiration gleamed on his face and he could only beg her for release.

There isn’t the time though.

Her hands move to his belt when he stops her. She looks up anxiously, afraid that he’s had second thoughts, that he’s going to make his apologies and leave.

“Allow me,” he says huskily. She watches as he undoes his belt, releases the clasp on his trousers and draws out a thick cock that immediately makes her mouth water. He watches his own hand as he rolls his foreskin back, then squeezes his shaft until a perfect, glistening drop of precum appears at the tip of his glans.

He looks back up at her.

“All yours,” he tells her.

She kneels before him, not subservient for a second. Her tongue flickers out, grazing the point where his glans meets the underside of his shaft.

The frenulum, she thinks absently, somewhere at the back of her mind.

Her tongue flickers out again, this time spearing the glistening dewdrop at the apex of his cock. She smears his essence around the edges of her mouth, savouring her first taste of him. It won’t be the last.

She licks her lips with relish, then descends.

He cries out as she takes almost all of his length into her mouth with her first swoop. His reaction is louder than she had expected, much less controlled. It’s just as well the office is deserted. She grins wickedly around his flesh, her feeling of power growing as her sense of vulnerability diminishes.

She withdraws, kisses her way down his shaft to his heavy balls, stirring them slowly with her fingertips as her tongue trails over them. He groans, groans again, urging himself towards her mouth. She runs her tongue back and forth along his shaft, painting him until he gleams, then takes him back into her mouth.

“Oh fuck!” he gasps.

She adores cock, loves to worship it with her mouth, loves to bestow it with her exceptional talents. His excitement is palpable, vibrating the air about them, and that arouses her most of all. She reaches beneath the hem of her skirt with her free hand, trails her fingertips across her naked, inflamed labia. She dips her fingers into the sweltering slickness within and shudders deliciously.

The pace of her mouth over his hard flesh quickens. “Oh, yes! Oh, yes!” he groans, his buttocks lifting up from the leather as he tries to thrust into her mouth. She stills him with strong hands that press down against the tops of his thighs.

This is mine, she thinks. My way. My pleasure. Accept it.

Quickly, he settles himself again, surrendering to her artful ministrations. As reward for his compliance, the velocity and the pressure of her strokes increase.

Eventually, she feels his cock begin to tremble in her mouth, feels the ridge along the underside of his shaft begin to pulse. He seizes the arms of her chair with both hands, grips down until the sinews in his neck stand out in sharp relief, and the chair itself shakes.

“Oh, yes! Oh, fuck, don’t stop!” he cries out, loud enough to penetrate any wall, any window. “Don’t stop!”

As if.

His shaft throbs deeply when he climaxes, his thick, warm come erupting into her mouth as he cries out a fusion of relief and ecstasy. She savours the sweet-saltiness that floods her taste buds, that gushes over her tongue. She swallows him with pleasure, sucking hard until she is certain that she has not forsaken a single drop.

When she looks up, his eyes are glistening. She knows that her own are brighter still.

“Thank you,” he says, the note of bewilderment back in his voice.

Her tongue laps the length of his shaft. She cradles his dwindling thickness to her cheek. “I’m sure I’ll think of a way for you to repay me,” she says lustfully.

“Now?” he asks doubtfully. “I think I may need a little time…”

“No, not now,” she laughs. “I’m already late. I have to go now, and so do you.”

She watches him dress, kisses him at the door, and sends him on his way to his BMW in the staff car park with a self-satisfied smile on his face and his groin licked clean and dry. No one would ever suspect that she’d been there.

She smiles to herself as she scoops up her jacket and flicks off the lights.

Exactly the way I like it.

He was pleasantly surprised. In the past, once they’d arranged an encounter, his wife had preferred to slip the subject to the back of her mind. She’d committed herself to each of their adventures, but she wouldn’t spend the days leading up to them lost in contemplation as to what was to come, unlike himself. Perhaps thoughts of desire lace with anticipation did dance through her mind when she was alone, or asleep. If they did, though, she never shared her musings with him. The only thing that he was certain of – the result of bitter experience – was that she preferred not to make impending meetings the subject of conversation in the preceding days.

Sunday morning proved to be different.

Lying side by side in the pre-dawn darkness, she reached over his waist without a word, and grasped his cock, still semi-hard from sleep’s lustful reveries.

“I’ve been thinking about Emily’s email,” she said in a low voice.

“Really?” He felt his pulse quicken, and his cock begin to harden and thicken anew.

He rolled over to face her. Even in the half-light, he could see the lust gleaming in her eyes. The sheets were thrown back from her naked shoulders, and though the bedroom was warm, her nipples were roused to full stiffness. He wondered if she’d been gently caressing her breasts as he’d dozed beside her. He reached out a hand and stroked his palm along the warmth of her closest thigh. When he reached her sex, he found her full and wet. Either she’d been silently pleasuring herself, or her thoughts alone had been indecently arousing. He found that both possibilities made his predator’s blood course.

“What was your favourite part?” she asked him, as her hand slipped slowly back and forth along his shaft.

He thought in silence for a while. In the end, all he could say was, “I liked it all.”

“Cop out.”

“It’s not meant to be. I just happened to enjoy every single thing that she described.”

She shook her head. “There must have been something that appealed to you more than everything else.”

He thought again. When he spoke this time, there was a slight tremor in his voice. He could feel it travelling down his arm, all the way to the finger tips that were drawing idle patterns across her aroused sex. “She described … kissing her way up your body, so that I … so that I could slip my cock into you … then into her, then into you…”

She laughed, her fingers tightening momentarily around his shaft as she continued to work him. “You’re so fucking predictable.”

“I know.” His wry smile masked the feeling of reticence that had risen up with his confession. It was always the same when he confessed his most cherished desires to her. “At least I’m consistent,” he said, for a moment not certain whether he was speaking to his wife or himself.

“At least you’re hard,” she grinned wantonly, drawing him to her.

He slipped himself familiarly between her willing thighs, allowed her to guide his glans to her clitoris. Her eyes fluttered closed with growing rapture as she delicately strummed her flesh with his. He watched her face, watched the lines of seriousness around her eyes soften and fade as pleasure flowed through her.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispered, stitching a line of kisses from her earlobe down the side of her neck to her clavicle.

“About doing this to her with your cock … and then sliding you inside her.”

He continued the line towards her shoulder. “You’d enjoy that? You’d find it arousing?”

She groaned in that lascivious, animalistic way she did whenever he plucked a truly erotic longing from her mind. “I did with Carmen.”

“You enjoyed watching me fuck her?”

She nodded. “I loved it … I loved watching her expression.” Her eyes remained closed as she played with her memories. Her body tensed and writhed against the blunt head of his cock, and the tip of her tongue tracked wantonly along the inside of her lips. “All the time knowing how much she was enjoying it, how good it felt to have your cock all the way inside … and knowing that you were going to fuck me next; fuck me while her tongue was exploring me, exploring you, exploring all around where we were joined.”

He groaned, shuddering uncontrollably, electrified by the unexpected depth of her desire. Suddenly, the weekend they had scheduled couldn’t arrive quickly enough.

Her body suddenly stiffened as though the current flowing through him had passed into her, and she stilled her cry of ecstasy against his shoulder. Her body had barely calmed when she slipped him inside her molten core, making herself cry out afresh.

“So you want to fuck us both at the same time?” she asked him breathlessly as her calves entwined themselves about his.

“You know that I do.”

“While she’s lying over me … kissing and caressing me … pressing herself tight against me?”

“Yes. Just like that. Exactly like that.”

“And not with the two of us lying side by side?”

And with just ten words, he found himself consumed by the delectability of her debauched imagination. Even without closing his eyes, he could see them all; the women’s naked bodies gleaming beneath the warm glow of candlelight, side by side on the king-sized bed, and himself, a rapacious hummingbird, flitting back and forth between them, half-a-dozen thrusts inside his wife, then slipping himself between the readied thighs of another wanton woman as his wife caressed herself and her lover with her hands, as she urged his hard cock on with her whore’s vocabulary.

He swallowed. “That would work too.”

Her answering smile was as wanton as he’d ever seen it. “And what else do you want?”

He kept his strokes smooth, even, though it took most of his concentration to restrain himself from thrusting with selfish abandon. What was left he turned to Emily’s message, to all the glorious things she’d described them doing. Their plans would leave them little more than half a day to indulge themselves. Was it enough? He didn’t know. He only knew that he wanted each of them to make every second count.

“What else do you want?” she asked him again.

He looked down into eyes drenched in glittering lust.

“Everything,” he said with simple finality. “Every last thing.”