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by
Stan Kent
(The English version minus the
sexy Cupido pix)
I always arrive early at the office to insure I
serve my boss her first cup of coffee by nine. She likes her java
strong, with dollops of thick condensed milk to sweeten the espresso's
eye-popping bite. It takes me no more than ten minutes to prepare,
taste and adjust the tanned elixir, but I allow myself at least
a quarter of an hour in the event something goes wrong. Once I'm
certain the brew is exactly the way she likes it, I place the steaming
mug on her Gucci coaster and scoot under her desk.
I sit on my haunches, eager to know whether I've passed the first
test, but my boss keeps me on tenterhooks with the tapping of her
plectrum nails on the coffee cup. The high pitched drumming rises
above the swirl of distant voices heard over the static of her speakerphone.
She's discussing yet another gargantuan buy of her world famous
designer fashions, but I'm only interested in her private attire.
I stare at her voluptuous outline as she metronomes her body slowly
from buttock to buttock. Her executive chair creaks under the hypnotic
motion. The leather slips and crackles as it resists the intimate
tug-of-war with her clothes. The telephone babble fades. I focus
my dark adapting eyes on the twin columns of her legs, her calf
muscles sculpted tense by Via Spiga ankle strap high heels. In the
murk of the desk's walnut underworld, the whiteness of her pressed
tight knees twinkles through the charcoal mesh of her expensive
pantyhose. Her patellae are such tempting morsels.
She stills her teasing undulations, pausing in mid-sentence. Across
the oceans, oblivious to my predicament, powerful men hang on her
words. I hold my breath, a frisson of sexual anticipation gnawing
at my desire. Please, please, please let the coffee be to her taste.
A sip. A swallow. A sigh. Her words flow steely into the speakerphone,
but I sense her satisfaction. Her legs inch apart. I breath. She
approves of the coffee. I smile, knowing I have given her the first
of today's many satisfactions. I kneel on my strategically positioned
cushion. My head bows. She inches forward to the edge of the chair.
Her hand cradles my head, toying with the short hairs on my neck
as she pulls my face deep into the warmth of her thighs.
Above the muffle of her limbs, I hear her antique clock chime nine.
My work day has begun.
Through demanding sentences punctuated by sips of my lovingly made
coffee she dictates terms and conditions to her telephonic audience
as she pulls my head under her Vera Wang skirt and washes my face
against the taut nylon cloaking her mound. She makes unflinching
financial demands of her buyers as static charges prick my skin.
I inhale the damp of her pussy. An amorous cocktail of sex juice
and perfume waft into my brain, firing all the right synapses. I
am delirious. There is nothing like the penetrating odor of feminine
lust early in the morning. It speaks of licentious nights and crack-of-dawn
sex raining down a sweet deluge of sticky juices. She is all pussy,
perfume and power.
She pushes my head from her lap and presses my face to her knees
with a brusqueness I find addictive. She does not deny my craving.
Her firm hand grips my neck, guiding my lips from one knee to another
in dizzying circular motions of my head. I plant kisses, lingering
long enough to soak her skin through the tightly woven fibers of
her Wolford pantyhose. The dampened Lycra sticks to my face as she
turns my head to a fresh, dry patch of stocking. She pulls me higher,
her hand and thighs funneling my tongue back to her sex. Like a
cat cleaning its fur, I drag my tongue across the shining nylons,
relishing the luxurious texture.
She lifts her skirt above my head, bunching the Vera Wang around
her waist. My eyes flood with stark, fluorescent light, revealing
a vision commanding worship. My boss is loveliness incarnate. White
skin, red lips, jet black hair piled high above her head, curled
wisps cascading down to caress her cheek bones over which the darkest
of eyes peers down at me. Averting my gaze, I see the mirroring
blackness of her sex hair, pressed flat against her slight pubic
curve by the charcoal stricture of the pantyhose. She's not wearing
panties, as is her want with sheer tights. She hates panty lines.
Thanks to her fashion sense, I have a splendid view of her hairy
sex. Contrasting the whiteness of her skin, her pubic hair is like
a pool of ink begging to be blotted by my tongue.
I lap at her darkness. Her sex lips hide underneath the tights'
reinforced crotch, but my tongue discovers the telltale swell of
her labia and their sticky parting. I lick along the Wolford's vertical
seam, increasing my pressure with every stroke, burrowing the silky
material's ridge into my boss's heated flesh. Through the fine Lycra
mesh my saliva merges with her juices, swamping her thighs. She
edges forward, pressing her marshy cunt into my face, squeezing
her thighs against my ears, burrowing my nose into her pussy as
far as the Lycra hymen will allow. The Wolford's stretch and strain,
but the pantyhose are resilient. I can hardly breath.
She continues her business call. The words are an indistinct blur
to me as I gasp for cunt-tinged air, but her tone suggests an agreement
has been reached. Her body confirms my suspicions. She softens her
arched back. Her fist grips my hair. She pulls my head out of her
crotch. My mouth drags over the sodden pantyhose. I hook a tooth
on the mesh, tugging the nylon away from her flesh. I grind into
the tensing fibers, renting the weave.
"Ciao," she says as she clicks off the call.
"Eat," she says looking down at me.
I do. I am a ravenous creature. I tear through the pantyhose with
my teeth, splitting the luxury hose along its seam. I refuse to
use my hands to enlarge the opening, making wider gashes with pit
bull shakes of my head. The nylon resists tearing, but ultimately
my animal gnashing wins. The swell of her sex bursts through my
incisions like an overripe fruit splitting its skin. Unhindered
by the Wolfords, I bury my face into her naked cunt, feeling the
damp tickle of her pubic thatch envelope me. I suck her unfettered
scents into my lungs, but she gives me no time for a cunt connoisseur's
lingering as she rocks in her chair, smacking her clitoris against
my tongue. Each throbbing impact feeds the next as she batters my
mouth with her mound. She is a nuclear bomb built of sexual energy.
Clitoral mass has been reached. Frisson is underway. Her legs flail,
her high heels prick my back, but I am resolute in my attention.
I keep my tongue outstretched for her to find the release she craves.
She shudders. She stiffens. Meltdown. I pass another of my work
day's tests.
As quickly as it began, the frenzy subsides, and my boss regains
control of her body. She anchors her legs over the chair's arms,
using her hands to open wide a psychedelic cuntmelt of glistening
pinks, carmine reds and earthy browns amidst the dripping canvas
of her white skin and black bush. Now I can dally.
I spiral the tip of my tongue around her sensitized clitoris, coaxing
the beating heart from its protective shroud. When her squirming
hips tell me she can't take much more, I punctuate my clitoral attentions
with sedate tongue baths of her labia, minor and major. I begin
at the puckered darkness of her anus, probing the tightness with
my tongue, clamping my lips French kiss-like around her sphincter.
After a thoroughly mushy asshole tonguing, I curl my tongue flat
against her perineum, lapping gently over the sensitive boundary
between anus and cunt. I continue my cunnilingual odyssey by peeling
apart her fleshy labial folds as I slide towards her belly. I skirt
her vagina with a swirl, folding my tongue upwards to once again
attach to her clitoris. There I dawdle, dripping my cunt-tinged
saliva down her mound, trickling the elixir between the pressed
tight curve of her ass, soaking her expensive dress.
I glance at my boss as often as I can without being an obvious spectator.
She is rapturous, her head sometimes bobbing forwards to stare at
my tongue having sex with her. At other times she's a lolling rag
doll, her head hanging over the rear of the chair, her neck stretched
tight, her Adam's apple bobbing as she moans rude words of encouragement.
Flailing her hooked legs over the padded arms of her chair she swings
to and fro, rocking her body on my tongue. I have no illusions as
to my role. I am her dildo, and she's masturbating on my face, taking
aggressive control of my ministrations. My nagging pleasure is of
no concern to her, and truly, it matters little to me. I only want
to please her, and in my enthusiasm I probe too hard. She reacts
as if I'd shocked her with a stun gun. Her back arches, her legs
stiffen. She grabs her ankles and stretches wide her pussy, as if
she wants to split another orgasm from deep within herself.
I back away, offering temporary relief, but the thrust of her hips
and the slap of her hand against the back of my head tells me not
to relent. I resume licking her inner thighs, pulling further asunder
the torn Wolfords with my teeth. The more accessible her sex becomes,
the more I play, making wavy designs in her sodden pubic hair. I
travel from thigh to thigh, crossing over her erupting cunt with
a swipe of my trawling tongue. Each traverse results in an increasingly
violent pussy spasm, and soon the paroxysms are happening on their
own, faster and faster, harder and harder, wetter and wetter. She's
shaking, the tendons in her agape legs knotting as her body fights
to hold itself together. I plunge my wide open mouth over her convulsing
sex, clamping my lips over her labia. I suck her mound into my mouth,
collapsing her pussy into a bubbling hotness that reminds me of
a hot fudge sundae topped with a sweet, hard cherry. I try to tie
the cherry's stem into a knot.
She explodes.
I sputter amidst her juices. Her thrusting pelvis batters my face,
but I hold on to her bucking body, grabbing her clenching bottom
with my hands. Her legs clamp shut around my head, and I wonder
if I should retreat, but I feel her hands on the back of my head
grinding me into the vortex of her sex. My face is soaked, my lips
bruised, my tongue sore. Her come washes over my face, the excess
bubbling from my mouth, fountaining into my nose, dripping down
my chin. I feel like I'm drowning in a vat of womanly juices.
Her gyrating subsides. Instead of pulling my face into her sex,
she pushes, squeezing her thighs tight together. My head pops out
from between her legs like a cork from a bottle of champagne. I
collapse to the floor. Her high heels land next to my head. I kiss
the pointed toes, conscious that I'm smearing the high-gloss polish
with streaks of her come. I look up her towering legs, past her
riven pantyhose, over her dripping cunt, skirting her rainforest
of pubic hair to rest upon her eyes. She smiles.
"Get me a new dress. The short sleeveless Versace black number
will do. I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, then lunch with that
brat from Vogue. During my meeting you can polish my shoes. Use
the Vera Wang. It's all it's good for now."
I search through her closet, through the bank of fine garments,
presents from other envious designers. The velvet Versace feels
like liquid. I hold it open for her and she steps inside.
"Zip me," she commands, bending her head forward, holding
the wispy curls of hair from her neck. I slowly snake the metal
teeth together along the length of her spine, reluctant to hide
her naked skin, but as she steps away from my touch I see that her
beauty cannot be obscured, only amplified. She is spellbinding in
the Versace. It swirls out from her shoulders like a flowing cape.
The hem hovers at mid-thigh. Mid-charcoal-Wolfords-with-the-crotch-eaten-out-pantyhose-covered-thigh.
I'm so glad she didn't sheath her legs in a new pair of hose, but
decided to wear my savaged nylons.
I gather the ruined Vera Wang and kneel on my cushion underneath
my boss's desk. She greets a peon from advertising and sits down
in front of me. She crosses her legs, offering me a shoe. While
she talks about the details of her latest media campaign I polish
the leather to a sparkle with the designer garment that costs more
than a month of my salary. The peon has no idea that I'm there.
My boss shows no sign of distraction from my ministrations as she
juggles dollars and strategies. She angles her ankle upwards, presenting
me with the high heel's sole. I kneel and kiss the barely scuffed
leather, tracing the Via Spiga lettering. She doesn't wait for me
to finish my tongue dance, uncrossing her leg to present the other
shoe for polishing. I barely have time to plant the tiniest of kisses
on the sole before she stands, almost stepping on my tongue as she
dispatches the advertising rep to the bowels of the building.
She looks down at my prostrate body, my tongue still dangling across
the plush carpetry of her penthouse office.
"I'll be at lunch for several hours. When I return I must dictate
several urgent memos. Busy yourself until then."
She spins to leave. The Versace flutters upwards. As she strides
to the door I see the garden of her bush flowering from the torn
pantyhose. I swoon, privy to a vision of perfect imperfection. Her
beautifully wet pussy bursts from the devastation of ripped material.
I am ecstatic to have created such a priceless work of sensual art,
proud that my boss, one of the world's most famous fashion designers,
would choose to wear my mouth's work to lunch.
In reverent celebration I dive into her executive chair, smothering
my face in the cunt-tinged leather, wallowing in the aftermath of
her presence. I spend the rest of lunchtime sniffing her seat, licking
her secretions from between the leather grain, drying the wet spot
with my hair, masturbating but not orgasming on her come-stained
Vera Wang dress that I used to polish her shoes, remembering the
day when my life gained purpose.
It was a year ago when I saw the announcement of an opening for
her Personal Assistant. I cried tears of unbelieving joy when I
learned I had made it through the vetting process onto the short
list. I shook when she ushered me into this penthouse suite for
a final interview. I calmed immediately when she asked me her first
question.
"Do you eat pussy?"
I had often felt unsure of my administrative skills, but I was a
skilled cunnilinguist. I didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
"Show me."
I dropped to my knees, crawled to her chair, and secured the job
three hours later. A year has gone by and I am content in my nine-to-five
sex slave role. I'm paid well for my time spent between her thighs,
and I never have to worry about sexual harassment. I'm paid to lick
my boss's pussy. I do no normal office work like phone calls or
filing. The extra little things I do for her like polish her shoes
and make her coffee I do out of a delirious desire to satisfy her
every whim. I am her devoted servant.
Yelled orders about an urgent Fed Ex package to the people who
do have to worry about the normal office routine tell me my boss
returns from lunch. I scurry back under her desk. Skyscraper legs
tower in front of me. A toe taps.
"Hungry?"
Yes, I nod.
She drops a bag at my nose.
"Warm this up and bring the contents to me. It's feeding time."
I scoot to the microwave and zap the cartons. "Not too hot,"
she commands. "I don't want you to burn my pussy."
I terminate the microwaving early, placing the heated containers
on her desk. I sit on my cushion. She stands before me, legs planted
wide apart. I follow her lean, tensed limbs along the shimmering
outline of the Lycra pantyhose. She pulls the Versace over her head
and tosses it skyward. It flutters to the ground. She stands spectacular
in the ripped tights, long legs shining, black bush sprouting out
of the torn charcoal frame. She sits down, legs apart, bra-less
breasts bobbing. She rolls her chair towards me. She reaches for
the cartons, pops the lid and sniffs inside.
"Melted brie smells so much like boy-come. Don't you think?"
She takes a scoop of the molten cheese and slathers it on her pussy,
working the strands into her bushy nest. I lean forward, working
my nose into the goo. She's right. The smell does resemble a man's
orgasm. The lusty bouquet of melted brie and my boss's sex juices
fuels an image of me eating a man's oozing come from her cunt. I
eagerly nod my agreement with her observation, pulling a dollop
of cheese and pubic hairs into my mouth.
"Tortellinis look like little pussies, don't they?"
She places a plump pasta between her labia. She's right again. It
looks exactly like a small pussy. She smears melted brie over the
tortellini.
"It's filled with salmon. Bite into it. It smells like pussy."
I split the tortellini. She's right again. Its scent blends with
her own musk. I'm overcome by a sensual smorgasbord of tastes and
smells. She laughs as I gobble at the morsel. She places her legs
on the desk, opening wider my feeding trough.
"I had pussy-looking, pussy-tasting pasta in boy-come-sauce
for lunch wearing cunt-ripped pantyhose, and the Vogue editor wondered
why I didn't pay her any attention. I soaked the chair thinking
of you eating your lunch from my platter. Heaven knows what drivel
she'll print about me."
I swallow the salmon tortellini pussy soaked in melted brie boy-come,
soaked in my boss's juices. She pops another pasta into her vagina,
coating her labia in more melted brie. I bite and slurp, working
my tongue into the intricate ridges of the morsel. I lift the impaled
pasta upwards, rubbing it over her brie-covered clitoris. The tortellini
slips and slides around the reddened object, worked to and fro by
my tongue. I curl my lips over my teeth and mush the pasta until
it bursts, but I don't swallow, purposefully spilling it's strong
smelling contents across her sodden sex. She grabs a handful of
tortellinis and rubs them onto her tits, anchoring the pasta to
her hardened nipples. I reach upwards as I eat my lunch from between
her thighs, crushing the pasta between by fingers, pinching her
nipples as the semolina disintegrates under my touch. But I don't
stop. I work the pink salmon around the brownness of her attentive
nipples, massaging the mess into her soft breast flesh.
I scoop the mashed tortellini from her breasts, sliding the squashed
little pussies down her belly, over her slick mound and into my
open mouth. As I swallow I flick little bits of food from her clitoris,
splattering the excess across her belly and onto her thighs. I smack
her clitoris with my tongue as I dislodge a stubborn piece of congealed
brie. She comes with a maenad violence, blowing a miasma of cheese,
pasta and come into my face as she arches her body from the chair.
She pulls my head into her steaming opening and works me into her,
grinding her cunt across the features of my face as if I were a
food processor and she the contents.
She slumps into her soiled chair, her legs anchored to her desk,
bits of food littering her body. I kneel on my cushion, licking
my lunch from my lips, sputtering pubic hairs from my throat as
she speaks.
"Clean up this mess while I take a shower. Afterwards I'm going
to dictate those memos, and by then it should be time for afternoon
tea."
Ah, afternoon tea, my favorite part of the day. Creamy chai, finger
sandwiches, chocolate eclairs, clotted cream scones with strawberry
jam, kiwi tarts and grapes for palate cleansing. Then it'll be five
and time for me to go home. Home to wait for my wife to get home
from her office. She'll fall into the room, tired from a long day,
asking me how my day was. Just fine, I'll say. The usual nine to
five. She'll laugh. While I cook dinner, I'll run her a bath and
give her an exquisite foot massage between stirring the piquant
dishes she favors. After a relaxing meal we'll make slow love. I'll
take my time releasing the sexual tension eight hours of subservient
foreplay have conjured. Then we'll fall asleep.
We both need our rest.
She's a famous fashion designer and has her empire to run.
And I have to be there by nine to make her coffee.
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