Nine-to-Five Cupido Article Wall
   
Stay tuned for the latest updates and catch Stan's hot short stories in the Cleis Press collections: I is for Indecent, F is for Fetish, Caught Looking, Hide and Seek, She's On Top, Cross Dressing, and the Pretty Things Press releases: Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z, Vol. II and Sex and Candy
The text is all in Norwegian, but don't worry if you don't speak the language, scroll through the pictures, and the English version is included at the bottom if you feel so inspired as to touch yourself to my words ...
NINE TO FIVE

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.

"Dressing well and looking good are essential. A meaning in life is not." . . . Oscar Wilde
   

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