5. 2
“Do you need me to assign a new task?” His voice was smoothly formal as he bent to remove the cufflink that rested at the apex of my thighs.
I knew he would touch my breasts next, taking the other cuff link. He would touch my skin. Touch me.
“Something more challenging—or, shall we say, harder—than dictation?”
That word dictation, it contained one of those other words I was trying not to even think, but I couldn’t help myself. I looked at his pants.
The pleated fabric couldn’t contain what he sported.
“Please.” I knew well the peril of idle hands. “Tell me what to do.” Idle hands would touch bare skin. Idle hands would fumble under panties, they might find wet places between legs, maybe even cause a good girl to end up right here in this chair. In so much peril.
His fingers plucked that second cuff link from my skin, but nothing more. Nothing. I didn’t know I could miss something I’d never had, but I missed his touch.
And then he spoke. “Loosen your hair.”
At the end of a workday, the pins securing my bun always seem to have burrowed into the base of my skull. I loved to remove each one in front of my mirror, but when I did it in front of him, there was no way to separate the motions of my arms from the connection to his gaze. As my thumb fed each pin automatically through my fingers into my palm, I watched him. And he watched me until the last pin slipped into my hand, and I felt the rope of my hair slide down my back. With the weight released, my head felt lighter, almost floating.
“Comb it out.” His low, dark tone, so similar to chocolate, made me shiver. “With your fingers.”
I didn’t think I could speak, so I opened my palm to show him the handful of pins I clutched, and then I tottered to my feet. My knees held, and I was at the desk next to him. The tiny clicks of those restraints hitting the glass made me shiver.
I felt the heat of his body close behind me. Then his arm came along my side, and he dropped the two gold knots among my cheap steel pins. They clinked, their fine metal ringing more clearly on the glass top than the skinny bits I had let fall.
My breathing grew louder.
“You’re delaying, Mary.”
The accusation made me turn to face him.
He’d folded his arms across his chest, waiting. “I told you to comb out your hair.”
I raised my hands and splayed my fingers across my scalp, running them from my temples around behind my head. As I spread my arms and pulled my fingers through to the ends, strands clung to my fingers and drifted in the air to land on my nipples. My Scandinavian-straight hair felt less substantial than the weight of my need.
His falcon gaze circled from my hair to my breasts to my face, absorbing me while he seemed to grow larger. He’d been all lean muscle, but now he seemed transformed, his lips darker, his chest broadened. “Come here to me.”
Like a woman in a dream, I obeyed.
My breasts pressed against his chest and his dark curly hair tickled me like dewy grass gone to seed. My collarbone burned where the heated muscles of his chest supported me. Even the skin on the outside of my arms felt alight where his arms embraced me. He must have understood what I wanted, because his hands curved under my backside and hauled me past my tiptoes, bringing me even tighter against his body. It made me feel delicate.
Then he kissed my lips for the first time. I became both taller and smaller. It was a kiss that wiped all others from my memory, because he was a man who obliterated the boys I’d known. His lips were soft, but he didn’t use them softly. He suckled my lower lip, and I wanted to collapse and melt into him. The stubble on his chin scraped, making me want more. I knew I wanted to be marked by his male texture, but he kept kissing me. Even when he let my body slide back to the support of my own feet, he didn’t stop kissing me. My breasts rubbed down his chest, and the fabric of my skirt caught high on his thighs. I felt the scratch of his wool suit pants through my stockings. Automatically, I spread my thighs to thrust at the bulge that caught my opening, halting me for a second. I liked that pressure building between my legs, liked it fiercely. I didn’t feel nervous about breaking him like I did with most city boys. My tongue plunged deep into his mouth, tangling with his, tracing the top of his teeth, trying to show him how much I liked pushing against his body.
He must have understood, because he lifted me again. Each time he hauled me past my tiptoes, it felt like he took me ten stories above myself, and when he let me slide down over the pressure I craved, the notch between my legs sought him, and found him, and I wanted to rock on his shaft. Kissing and rubbing ourselves together could only ever be practice, good practice, and I could have practiced this for a very long time, but I needed more.
Then the back of my legs bumped up into the couch. He’d maneuvered us across the room. “Shall I help you with this?” He stroked my hip over the side zipper of my skirt.
It didn’t sound like a question, but I answered. “Yes, yes. Please.”
The metal teeth parted almost silently, but each little rasp felt like he’d turned up a thermostat. My skin flamed by the time my skirt dropped to the floor. For a moment, he seemed startled to find that I wore a pair of lace-top thigh highs and a white garter belt, but I’d hated the demon of pantyhose since the day my mother first stuffed me in knit tights. I’d come to the city for freedom, and discovering Victoria’s Secret had liberated me from more than the smothering encasement of control tops from egg-shaped plastic containers.
He paused with his first finger pressing one of the small tabs that held up the stockings and said, “Why, Mary, this is a surprise.”
I allowed that I could remove the garters for him. He said I needn’t bother. Then my discarded skirt tangled under my heels, a pair of navy-and-white spectator pumps with tight ankle straps, and his hand at my waist steadied me. “My shoes,” I said. “They’re still buckled.”
He glanced down. “Leave them too.”
Before I could kick myself free of the fabric, he crouched. His hand encircled my ankle and lifted my foot away, then moved to the other. The skin on my stomach quivered, yearning to feel the soft dark hair on his head brush across the bare bits above my skimpy panties. His face was so close to my thighs, he must have known how my panties clung to my opening. How my legs trembled. I didn’t know whether I wanted to grab that curly dark hair and smush his face between my legs, or whether I wanted to plant my heel on his thigh and push him to the ground at my feet, just to see if I could. Whatever I did, I suspected he would look at me and say, “Patience.”
Before I did either, he’d pushed the skirt away. “Sit on the couch.”
I sat. With my skirt removed, my wispy stockings were an insubstantial barrier to the crushed velvet imprinting on the back of my legs. Each prickle felt soft and yet a tiny bit scratchy at the same time, which left me wondering how it compared to a man’s stubble.
“Spread your legs.”
Every command he gave me was the first time anyone had ever spoken words like that to me, the first time I had done these things. And each one strung my nerves taut, until I vibrated like barbwire in a high wind. The velvet seemed to resist as I pushed my legs apart, and the skinny strip of my white panties couldn’t have been designed for this, but I did as he commanded.
After he stared down at me for what felt like forever, he knelt between my spread legs. His hands, resting on my whisper-soft stockings below my uncovered thighs, had my whole attention. I waited, but he didn’t shift them. He breathed, and I breathed, but I wouldn’t move until he told me.
“Lie back.”
It was a relief to fall backward, but when his fingers crossed to the bare skin above the tops of my stockings, the tension of sitting on the edge of this giant couch was replaced by an entirely different tension. I wanted him to touch where my panties clung so near to the reach of his thumbs, but he did not. Somehow, I knew that if he touched me there, I would become different, a woman, not a girl. But, nothing. Not rubbing. Not squeezing. Not touching the triangle of wet white fabric. I wanted to touch myself, I wanted him to touch me, I wanted. I couldn’t breathe, looking down my body at his thumbs, but no, no, this man I’d chosen was being mulish.
So be it. My body hummed full of needs and curiosities, and if he wouldn’t satisfy them, I could. I ran two fingers from the velvet underneath me up and across the cling of the dewed fabric until I arrived at the lace band below my belly button. My hips rose involuntarily to follow my fingers. He would have to give me more.
“Did I permit you to touch yourself?” He tweaked one of my nipples hard enough to startle a gasp from me.
“Sir!” I slapped my hands on the couch beside my hips, my head spinning from the aftershocks of that wicked twist. I’d never pulled that firmly on myself. I should have.
“Wait.”
Mr. G’s words issued a command, but I thought his hips bumped the edge of the seat cushion, perhaps seeking either the hand I’d pulled away or the place I’d touched. The other secretaries were tutoring me on when and how to disregard silly instructions, for our bosses’ own good, and I suspected this was one of those times.
“Please.” I arched my back and looked into his eyes. “Please, sir. Touch me.”
“I am touching you.” He knew perfectly well that I wanted more than his hands resting on my thighs.
“Please…” I parted my lips. Ran my tongue over them because they were dry. The only part of me that was dry. I whispered, “Please, touch my breasts.” I’m not sure I’d ever said that word out loud, never mind to a man, but when he moved his fingers like thick scissors around my nipples and closed them tightly and stretched them just so, I knew I had done well.
He tugged harder, a spot between tension and tightness that was exactly perfect. I wanted to cry and I wanted to scream and I didn’t know what I wanted, only that I wanted. Between his parted lips, I saw the edge of his top teeth, and then I knew.
I wanted his mouth to replace his fingers. His lips, wrapped around my nipples. His teeth scraping the spots he was rolling with his fingers. His tongue, the pink tip, licking me. I promised myself he would put that mouth on my body, but instead of leaning toward my breasts, he levered to his feet. I feared he was leaving me, a boneless heap on his couch, doomed to never touch him.
“Shh.” He bent to stroke the side of my body, running his knuckles along the outer curves of my breasts until I shivered. He brought one of his knees to a spot on the couch between my thighs, braced a hand on the wall above my head, and angled his upper body toward me. “Touch me.”
The way he loomed over me meant that I could part my lips and stretch until my tongue flicked the treasure of his nipple nestled in the dark curls so close to my mouth. I’d thought it would taste like he smelled, but I couldn’t have known how the small bump and press of a firm shape on the center of my tongue would contrast so deliciously with my expectations, that I would want to slurp him all over.
“That’s good, Mary.” Because he was still playing with one of my nipples, I think my brain was a minute behind my ears. “Quite good.”
Of course it was, but modesty is a virtue, so instead of taking credit, I scrape-squeezed lightly with my teeth. And imagined that he would soon do the same to me.
“At this stage, it would be appropriate to unzip my trousers,” he said, sounding more like a man at a conference table than a man tenting his pants.
I yearned to break his control. Those pinstripes slid and bunched as I glided my palm along the concealed log. I went back to the tip and tried to circle it with my fingers, but he was too confined.
While I pulled his belt’s supple leather out of the securing loop and then used a finger and thumb to pick the prong from its hole, he bent to watch. That made me nervous, and maneuvering while his thumb and fingers kept twirling, kept plucking, that was a challenge. I had to stop and roll my head and close my eyes, until he said my name and pulled my nipple hard enough to make me open them again, and so, in consequence, I took an inordinately long time to uncouple that leather from the metal buckle.
By the time I loosened his waistband, his breathing sounded as harsh and irregular as mine. When I slipped my hand between the fabric and his bare skin, I could feel hair curling on the backs of my fingers.
“You are playing.” His stomach, as flat and hard as I could have imagined, vibrated when he spoke. His voice reminded me of the type of chocolates I’m almost scared to eat because I know how intense they’ll be on my tongue. “Finish the job properly, Mary.”
Mine was a plain name, but he enchanted the two syllables, like I was a Jacqueline or a Farrah, not a Mary. I lowered his zipper. The tiny grinding sound made me want to wrap my leg around the back of his thigh and crash him down on top of me, but then that fabric parted and gave me a window to a new world. I saw a reddish-pinkish-purplish round tip caught in the opening of his briefs. The color defied one-word descriptions, brighter and redder than my nipples, but similarly flushed, showing me that our bodies wanted to match. I needed to take him in my hand, but I also needed to lean forward and bring my breasts next to that round plum, to find out how it would feel against my skin. And my mouth needed to kiss it and my face needed to press next to where it rose from his body.
“Enough.” He took the decision from me, hastily stripping shoes, pants, briefs, and socks until he stood before me, gloriously proud. He reached for my hand and pulled my palm under the shaft of his organ, urging me to curl my fingers around the prize. It fit like my hand was meant to encircle a penis, which is an odd thing to discover. Can anyone ever forget the first time seeing the length of a real live male flagpole? How your own fingers look slim and feminine when fisted around the thickness of a man?
There are many words for that male part, but I was taught to be the type of girl who would never say a word like “cock” because it’s unladylike. So, I will refer to Mr. G’s member as either a penis or it or some other such thing, but I will not call it a cock. Anything but cock. Cock is such a bad word, and Mr. G’s penis was so friendly in my hand, I wouldn’t want readers to think it was bad.
He bent toward me, closing the distance until his lips pressed mine, the connection immediately so intense that I opened to sigh into his mouth. Each stroke of our tongues seemed to echo through my hand down there, and through his fingers at my nipple. I wanted more of those strokes. More of his tongue, everywhere. And I wanted to have four hands so I could continue to handle him, and put an arm around his shoulders, and trail my hand across his firm flanks, and stroke his chest. I couldn’t keep up with what I wanted, but I tried. I tried.
“Do you like to be touched there?” I asked, raising my empty hand to that blushing tip.
“I do.”
“Like this?” I petted the roundness sticking out of my fist like it was a bunny, but a penis is not a bunny. Not at all.
“That’s nice, Mary.” And he dropped a hand between my legs and gave me similar light finger taps over the fabric of my panties. “Nice like this.”
Even though my buttocks tensed and rose toward him in an imitation of posting to a trot, I knew immediately that these insipid taps weren’t what I wanted. My breasts liked the firm pinches, the twists, the commanding handling driven by his confidence. Clearly, all of me wanted the same, and he expected the same in return. Per his suggestion, I immediately tightened my grip. His organ (note how careful I am to not call it a cock) grew even bigger. I bent my head to see the tip as it emerged from my fist and noticed an opening like the eye of a needle, a large upholstery needle. I stuck my pinkie finger from my free hand in my mouth, got it good and wet like the end of a thread, and then put my little finger right there on the hole.
He seemed to appreciate that, because he said a bit loudly, each syllable distinctly enunciated, “Thank you, Mary.”
My finger became wetter. Something had leaked from him, which wasn’t so different from a stallion preparing for its own coitus.
“You might also slide your hand.” What he did then—he must have rubbed his knuckles where my softest parts opened—seemed to crack open a door inside my deepest longings. “Up and down, Mary. Up. And down.” Then he moved his hips forward and back, which made his penis move in my hand, which had the effect of making my own little kitty want to meow.
The part of his body under consideration had become quite swollen by this point. A standard piece of paper is eight and a half inches by eleven inches, so I feel confident in saying I was holding a penis in the nine-inch range. I’d heard tell of men who were supposedly hung like a horse, which hadn’t made sense because a horse penis when fully extended from its sheath can be eighteen inches long, and then there are draft horses, and there’s no way all that’s inside a boy’s gut. But witnessing the change that came over Mr. G’s shaft—isn’t that another wicked word? But it’s not forbidden, like cock—enlightened me. I had, after all, taken advanced English classes and understood metaphor.
As it became easier for my hand to glide, I felt wrapped in the pine mix of his aftershave and the scent of hot skin. Not sweat. I knew the smell of sweat. This was the aroma of heat, of sun through a window or the white glare of metal in July, somehow turned to scent.
I wanted to feel that liquid he was giving me, so I tugged him closer until the tip of his penis brushed one of my nipples and left a thick smudge. His thumb took that liquid and spread it in circles around the peachy edges where my skin changed, and then he slipped the head right between my cupped breasts. When I pulled my nipples inward toward his shaft, rolling them on his hard flesh, I almost couldn’t hold myself together. Could barely keep my eyes open, because now he was in me. Not inside me down there, where his knee thrust at my center, but still, I’d wrapped that part of him with my flesh.
He pulled away a fraction, dragging backward through the breasts I plumped around him, and then he thrust hard at my tits until his penis poked out and air hissed between his teeth. He did it again and again, while I pinched and rubbed my tight nubs the way he’d shown me, pushing my tips down onto his hardened rod.
It wasn’t enough. I wanted more, something to fill me, that was all I knew. I’d never been filled by a man. I’d never wanted to be, before this, but now I needed something I didn’t have words for. And I needed him to tell me.
And then we were stretched alongside each other’s bodies, our feet hanging in the air at the end of the couch, and I understood the reasons for this deep design. That’s when I told him that I was a good girl. I’m not sure he believed me, because he laughed low and deep in his chest, and said, “Yes, yes you are,” in the way that I know means not at all. So I clarified. I used the word virgin.
Did I mention that Mr. G is a lawyer? He’s always good with a response. His answer was, “We can accommodate that.”
Before I could reach out to him, Mr. G moved over my body, his knees on either side of my hips and his weight dipping that section lower than where my shoulders rested. Finding myself in the position of the horse and not the cowgirl was fine, as long as he didn’t expect me to run a barrel course. And no bridles. I wasn’t going to wear a bridle.
Readers, is it terrible to admit that the idea of a riding crop had a certain appeal?
With his body straddling mine, his penis was front and center, pointing at me. I could smell it, earthy and wild like a forest animal. If I’d had a carrot to offer, I imagine his penis would have reached out and bit it, that hungry bugger. Feeling like taming that beast, I grabbed for his buttocks, same as I would reach out to haul a set of tack. My fingers barely dented those flexed muscles, his buttocks were that taut and firm. No marbling in that meat was the thought on my mind when he surprised me again.