She strides down the long corridor in high-heels, her lithe frame perfectly poised, her long legs devouring the distance. She’s imposing, and the look on her face deters anyone from stopping her to ask where she’s going, to see if she’s free for a drink after work. She looks – and is – totally focussed, and there’s only one place that she can think of in the building that will afford her the privacy she desires, that she needs.
She can feel herself becoming wet already.
She knocks on the door first, to be sure. When there’s no answer, she turns the handle and steps inside her boss’s office. The room is cool and quiet, devoid of human presence. She shoots a glance back the way she came, and reassured by the deserted passageway, by the distant murmur of her co-workers fully occupied, she closes the door. She doesn’t lock it though: that might require too demanding an explanation. Besides, the possibility of being walked in on adds a frisson to the occasion, one that courses deliciously down her spine, that makes her arms tingle until the gossamer hair on the backs of her forearms stands on end.
She sits down in the high-back chair. The oiled, musk smell of the new leather assails her nostrils, and she draws the aroma deep inside herself as she makes herself comfortable. She runs her hands across the top of the almost empty desk. English oak, highly polished, six or seven feet wide and almost four feet deep. It dominates the room, and in doing so, maximises the person sitting behind it whilst minimising all others. The Desk of Power, she thinks, as her palms glide back and forth across the almost-mirror finish. It is so smooth. She fights the urge to press her cheek against the cool varnish. The electric ripple at the possibility of being caught here only serves to sharpen her senses, to make her feel wondrously alive.
She settles herself back, and turns her thoughts towards him.
She conjures his face, his body, his voice: the easy smile that can illuminate his features in an instant; the broad shoulders that hold the power to pull her irresistibly back to him as he kneels behind her, his thick manhood cleaving her silken cunt in two as he grips her about the waist; the tone of his voice, the accent, as he presses his lips to her ear and tells her in a low voice exactly what he’s going to do to her next.
She shivers, her remembrance becoming physical. She feels the wetness between her thighs bloom. She’s dressed in a wrap-around dress, and it’s so easy for her to slip one hand between the folds of material, to find the waistband of the black lacy panties she’s wearing. She inches the tops of her fingers between the lace and her skin. Her belly flutters as she finds the trim rectangle of hair adorning her mound. She trimmed it much closer than was normal for her in anticipation of their first meeting, and still found herself making him promise to shave her even tighter. In the end, the chance never presented itself, but she’s determined to bring this micro-fantasy to fruition. Soon. Sometimes, she finds herself wondering what it would be like to be shaved completely bare, and the thoughts excite her in a shadowy, taboo fashion that only adds to the allure.
She looks at the hands-free phone to her left. The perfect device. She wishes that she could speak with him right now, share with him what’s on her mind, listen to the hitches in his breath as the earthy words tumble from her lips.
You always make me wet. That is what she would start with, if only she dared to punch the number for his mobile phone into the keypad. Next time, she counsels herself. Perhaps.
Her fingers reach lower. She finds the pearl of her clitoris, and it responds instantly to her touch, jolting her so violently that the leather squeals beneath her. She captures some of the rich essence from between her swollen labia and uses it to oil her strokes. She tries replicating the movement of his fingers, his hand, pretending that it is him touching her now, playing her like the master of some exquisite Stradivarius. She wishes she could see his eyes now, looking into hers, the two of them entranced, bewitched.
“Fuck,” she whispers to herself, before biting down hard on her bottom lip so that her lust doesn’t betray her presence in this forbidden place. Again, she wishes that she could speak to him, could hear his voice, hear the tension, the elemental exhilaration, in his breathing.
I’m thinking of your cock, she would tell him. I’m thinking of what I’d like to do to it, of what I’d like to do with it. His cock. His hard, thick cock. She remembers how it felt in her hand the very first time, how she had shivered with excitement as she’d dipped her head towards his loins, allowed the stranger’s prick to violate the sanctity of her mouth. Such intimacy. She hadn’t hesitated. Neither of them had. Now she aches to have it inside her cunt again, filling her, to wrap her long legs about his waist and pull him into her, to lock him inside her until she feels the deep pulse of his climax.
“Fuck,” she whispers again, a little louder this time despite her determination to be clandestine. She is completely wet, saturated. The lace is sodden, cleaved to her sex like a second skin. With one hand, she eases the material aside, baring her secret self to the room. The other plunders her cunt with a control she does not feel in her soul. The fresh air feels so good against her burning flesh.
I wish that you were here, she thinks. I wish that you were under this big, manly desk of power. I wish that you had your face between my thighs, wish that you could taste what I have for you right now. Right now.
She wants to lean back in the chair, plant the soles of her feet against the edge of the desk and pleasure herself with abandon. Better still would be to undress herself completely, then stretch out nude across the expanse of desk, leaving the mark of her arse on the cool, pristine polish as she came, as she came screaming. The delirious, fearless adventuress, who’d been her constant companion since her teens, wanted her boss to run in and find her sprawled naked across his desk, her hands a blur as she orgasmed over and over again. The adventuress wanted him to glimpse her might. The adventuress wanted the so-called man of power rendered mute and impotent in the face of its undeniability.
But in the end, she controls herself.
Remembering the way he’d tasted her, how he’d plunged his tongue into the depths of her cunt and then flickered its tip across her clitoris until she’d come to a gasping, shuddering orgasm is enough – together with her adroit ministrations – to carry her to the peak of her pleasure all over again.
“Fuck,” she half-whispers, half-grunts. The triumvirate is complete.
She stands up, straightens her underwear and her dress, checks the leather for marks or stains. Outside the office, the corridor is reassuringly empty. She slips out, closes the door silently behind her, strides back towards her own office, her poise perfect, her stride steady.
As with the very best of thieves, only she is aware of her crime.