Chapter One: From Vanilla to Spice
Being submissive didn't come naturally to her. Quite the opposite. That's why it took us time to get there, but also why it appealed to us. Her work is fast-paced, high profile, demanding long hours and intense commitment. If it took her attention away from me sometimes (often) I understood. She and I started out at the same company, and for a time, our roles and responsibilities ran parallel. A business magazine even published an article about a few of us who looked likely for future leadership, or, from another view, were on a collision course. (No more about that; the last thing I want is for readers to figure out who we are.)
I had my first sexual fantasy about her literally the night after we were introduced. I love brunettes, and her green eyes entranced me. Her rosy complexion and full lips completed my ideal. From the first hello, she came across as relaxed but not cocky, engaged but laid back, smart but interested in what you had to say. I wanted to know her better. And biblically. I won't deny it was lust at first sight, but more than that, I needed to be with her.
She came from the Midwest, where she'd acquired a surface reserve that hinted at unexplored depths. Back in high school I used to build fantasies around females I was too intimidated to talk to. I got over that, until I met her. If she looked interested in my opinion in a meeting, I'd be happy all afternoon. If she asked me a question, I could make a whole evening out of it. In the meantime, we'd exchanged less than a dozen words one-on-one.
She'd barely been in the job a month before the CEO put her in charge of an important project. She managed it with such poise we all assumed she'd led similar endeavors in the past. Then a rumor started going around the office that she'd been recruited almost directly out of college and was younger than any of us thought.
One day I took the opportunity to study her face while she made a presentation. She could've looked the same as a teenager and might change very little in another decade. Probably meant she got carded in bars, but that was the only downside I could see. That, and the fact people who look young often aren't taken seriously at work. Clearly not a problem in her case.
When that project landed successfully, largely due to her steady hand, the company threw a big party with oceans of champagne. I knocked back three flutes in the first ten minutes and felt buzzed. On my way out of the men's room I bumped into her on the way to the ladies'. We both laughed. And, for the first time, we started talking. After five minutes, I deadpanned, "I know you have important matters to take care of," nodding to the bathroom door. She looked me in the eye and asked if I'd wait.
Hell, yeah, I would. When she went through the door, I sprinted into the other room, grabbed two glasses of champagne, and dashed back in time to hand her one as she emerged. We clinked, and I knocked back a big slug. She sipped. We found a corner away from our colleagues and kept chatting. She emphasized a point by laying her hand on my shoulder. The modest touch sent tingles through my body. When she let it stay there, I nearly melted.
My mind raced seeking ways to justify asking her out, but company rules forbade it. And I warned myself to not get carried away. Colleagues had mentioned she'd initiated some "get to know you" one-on-ones. She hadn't done it with me yet, so this was likely nothing more than that. We bounced from topic to topic, led by her. What movies do you like? What books? Sports? Maybe she had a checklist to help connect with people in shorthand -- a useful skill in business ("hey, your team kicked mine's butt last night" can be a good icebreaker).
Others reported finding the chats a little formal; she came across to them like a manager ticking off boxes. Our conversation felt warmer, more personal, like she was genuinely interested in me and pretty open about herself. We discovered a shared love of horror movies, for example. The cheesier and gorier the better, we agreed, and made each other laugh naming off some real doozies (CHUD, anyone?).
Her fondness for b-grade bloodbaths seemed at odds with her quiet, straightlaced persona. It certainly suggested she had a dark side. Maybe having an outlet to experience vicarious chaos complemented her restraint in real life. More important to me at that moment, it felt like something she wouldn't tell just anybody. That made me feel special. But I'd been drinking a lot and assumed she had, also. Not that she acted tipsy. I took her for a person who maintained self-control, even when drunk.
Colleagues occasionally came by to congratulate her. Her hand left my shoulder as soon as anyone appeared. Promisingly, it went back when we were alone again. Finally, some folks who'd clearly downed even more champagne than I had barged in to recruit us for karaoke in the conference room. They were too sloshed to accept any answer except, "See ya there."
When they left, she muttered, "Oh, shit." A casual remark, but I'd never heard her curse. I doubt any of us had. At the office she spoke as politely as a school teacher and as incisively as a lawyer. Apparently, she didn't like karaoke. "Wanna make a break for it?" she asked.
Down on the street, we suddenly became tongue tied. She solved our dilemma by pushing me against a building and kissing me. We spent a couple of minutes exploring each other's open mouths with our tongues. She told me her apartment was a three-minute walk (so that's why nobody could ever beat her to the office in the morning). Would I like to go there? I must've agreed a little too enthusiastically, because she stepped back and said, "Don't make any assumptions."
I nodded, as soberly as I could manage, and said I only hoped we could finish our debate over whether John Carpenter was an auteur unfairly dismissed by elitist critics or a hack who wouldn't have a career if you took away the buckets of fake blood. (I can no longer remember who argued which position.)
In her apartment -- nice, not fancy; enough room, barely -- I sat on the sofa and launched into my analysis of Carpenter's The Thing. She listened courteously as she kicked off the low-heel pumps she always wore to the office, then padded over and sat on the other end. I kept nattering on until she plopped her bare feet into my lap. The touch of her naked soles on my wool-clad thighs shut me up. I guess I stared at her.
"Didn't you say Pulp Fiction was in your top five?" she asked, looking at me expectantly. It took my liquored-up brain a second to recall that film's famous dialog about foot massages. The obvious conclusion was that she wanted one. On the other hand, the topic of the scene was whether an out-of-line foot massage was grounds for a brutal murder. Maybe she was warning me not to touch. Hands on or hands off? The fact she was low-key toying with me felt cool.
I tentatively wrapped my right hand around her left foot and pressed my thumb into the pad under her toes. She threw her head back and sighed. Yes! I spent several minutes doing a number on her feet. When she cooed to say how nice it felt, I quoted Samuel L. Jackson's line from the movie, "I got my technique down and everything. I don't be tickling or nothing." She made noises I guarantee nobody at the office had heard from her. I tentatively worked my way up her ankles and shins. Her happy sounds continued, so I did too.
After enjoying my ministrations for a while, she sat up and kissed me. We necked on her couch like teenagers with parents in the next room. It took me a good ten minutes to get to the over-the-clothes caressing of her breasts. She planted kisses along my chin and down my neck but no lower. After half an hour, we'd had a great work out, but her feet were still the only bare body parts in the room.
I know that, biologically speaking, blue balls aren't a thing, but mine ached. The bulge in my pants felt like the most obvious thing in the world. She paid no attention. If we'd gone as far as we were going to, I could live with that. But I had to get home so I could jerk off.
That's when I felt her hand on my crotch. At first it just laid there. Outside my pants. Not moving. But wonderful. Warm. I willed my dick to stay calm, but it swelled even further against her palm. She closed her fingers and squeezed. I loved the attention but was a little distracted by the effort not to cum in my pants. It would be messy and embarrassing and another thing I hadn't done since high school. Fortunately, she wasted no time unbuckling my belt, opening my zipper, and lifting out my cock. I have to say, it enjoyed the fresh air.
She ran her finger from tip to balls and then slowly started stroking. I closed my eyes in bliss, refusing to let the constant mantra of don't-come-don't-come-don't-come in my head ruin it. I still had my eyes shut when I felt her moist lips sliding over my shaft. I could tell immediately she was an expert. She'd swirl her tongue around the glans, then lick the shaft up and down like a lollipop, then plunge my whole cock into her mouth. When she sensed I was about to spurt, she'd ease off, let me settle, and then start again, driving me thrillingly insane.
She let me know she was ready to finish me off by picking up her pace and bobbing her moist lips up and down while fisting and pumping the base. My ejaculation began deep inside, rose gradually to the surface, and gushed into her waiting mouth as a blissful sigh poured out of mine. She used a squeeze and release move to take my load slowly, increasing my pleasure and letting her swallow every drop. My orgasm went on forever.
When I was drained, she licked her lips and looked up, shyly. "Was that okay?" she asked with a giggle, as if there was any doubt. She brought her face close to mine and hovered. I got the feeling she wanted to kiss me, but maybe she worried I might not want to lock lips with a pair that had just been feasting on my ejaculate. I leaned in and gave her a passionate smooch. I tasted myself in her mouth. It was hot.
When we finished, she got to her feet and looked down at me. "Tonight's been great," she said. That sounded like my cue to leave, and though disappointed, I couldn't complain. I started doing up my pants. She'd licked my cock so clean it didn't even feel messy.
"Gotta use the bathroom," she said.
"Should I...?" I pointed to the front door.
"Wait. Won't be a long." She padded off through the door to the bedroom, leaving the door open. I heard another door click inside. The en suite. Okay, we'd gone a long way for the first time, and at least she wanted to say a proper good night. I stood up and waited. I'd never even taken my shoes off, so no complicated logistics. I tried to think of things to say in parting that would be sexy or sweet or even businesslike (we were colleagues, after all). I had nothing.
Turned out I didn't need to worry.
I heard another click from inside the bedroom. A few seconds later, she appeared in the doorway. In the low light, it took me a moment to realize she was stark naked. Damn, did she look beautiful. Some guys claim to know whether a woman's a C cup or D or whatever. I can only say she had Goldilocks breasts: not too big, not too little, just right. Her stomach was flat, waist tapered. Hips exactly what they should be. And her legs -- well, the modest, professional pants and skirts she wore to the office deprived her co-workers of one of life's great joys.
"Going to bed now," she said. I guess I'm a cautious type; I still thought that might've meant good night. Until she added, "Join me?" before disappearing into the room. I followed seconds later to find her stretched out invitingly on the bed, arms above her head, lifting her breasts proudly, toes pointed like a ballet dancer's, reaching for me. I stripped, then caressed her feet -- the first place I'd ever touched her -- and ran my fingers up her toned shins and thighs. She sighed and spread her legs.
She'd given me incredible oral pleasure and I yearned to return the favor. I buried my nose in her neatly trimmed public hair. She tasted wonderful as my tongue explored, then gasped and shuddered when I found the spot.
I took my time, flicking her clit and kissing it before sliding my finger between her engorged labia, releasing a flood of pent-up wetness. As she writhed and groaned (the happy moans she'd made when I massaged her feet were nothing in comparison), I slipped another finger inside her and began making come-hither strokes on her soft walls. "Oh my god," she said, over and over, a whisper at first and gradually louder, sounding both surprised and pleased.
Her pussy got even juicier. Soon I couldn't resist penetrating her beautiful asshole with my slicked-up finger. I'd been too carried away to ask her consent, and as it slid in, I worried she'd object. Instead, she started a chorus of "yes, yes, yes." I plunged my fingers deeper and licked her clit even more vigorously. She started shouting, "Oh, my fucking god. OH, MY FUCKING GOD." (So, the "shit" she'd muttered back in the office no longer seemed like a big deal.) Her vaginal walls began to tremble and clutch, massaging my fingers. At the crest of the wave, she exploded in the loudest, most convulsive orgasm I'd ever witnessed.
I practically leapt up onto her, the head of my hard cock instinctively finding her silky wet portal, twitching with excitement. She put her hands on my chest and said,
