After Lunch

You're a very fresh law school graduate, and after passing the Bar exam, you've recently been hired as a very junior associate by my law firm. One day, after you return from your lunch hour, I call you into my office.

"Yes?" you ask. "What can I help you with?"

"I see you're testing the firm's dress code today."

"Oh!" you exclaim, starting to blush. You realize that at lunch you took off your suit jacket, revealing the spaghetti-strap top you were wearing underneath. The soft flesh of your cleavage is visible. It is so hot in DC in the summer.

"I went out for lunch," you explain, crossing your hands over your breasts as if to hide them. "It was so hot I took my jacket off; I'm sorry I must have forgotten to put it back on."

"Close the door."

"Excuse me?" you ask.

"Close the door," I repeat, in a cool tone. You close the door.

"We can't have a little tease running around the office," I tell you, rising from behind my desk. "Show them to me."

"What?" You're shocked. You know from law school that this is sexual harassment.

"I want to see what you've got. Show them to me. Show me your breasts." I've crossed the room and am standing only a few inches away from you. You can smell my cologne; it is subtle, but very masculine.

"B-B-But, But," you stammer, "It's the middle of the day."

"That's right."

"But we might get caught." You're just stalling for time now.

"You've already been caught, caught being a little tease. Now show me your tits."

You can hear footsteps outside the door to my office, your can hear other attorneys chatting as they walk down the hall. Part of you is prudent and sensible and wants to run out of my office as soon as you can. The other part of you can't believe that your body is so sexy that it obviously is driving me wild just from looking at you in your stuffy old work clothes!

You reach up to the tight, spandex bra top and pull down the stretchy material until you can feel the cool airconditioning whisping over your petite breasts.

"Lovely," I say, just before I lean down and take your right nipple in my mouth.

Surprise, you say my name, "Mr. -------, oh, I, I didn't--"

You lean back up against the door to my office. You can hear more voices in the hall. You imagine them walking past the door, no idea that mere inches away a newly hired attorney was getting her tit sucked by a much more senior member of the firm.

My nursing grows increasingly insistent, and with one hand I reach up to squeeze your other breasts. My other hand reaches around and squeezes the softness of your ass through the rayon of your skirt.

You know how wrong this is. As you submit to my ministrations, your body open for my investigation, your extremities beginning to tingle in response to my touch, your mind flashes to all of the people who would most certainly not approve of this little scene. Your parents, your friends, your old professors from Bryn Mawr where you were a womens' studies major. Your boyfriend.

Forgot about him, did you? How would he react to this little licentious scene? But then, who cares? He never had the confidence to order you to show him your breasts. Or more precisely, tits. Tits: that's what I called them, and you think of the word while I switch my mouth from your right nipple to your left. Your right nipple is engorged with blood, standing straight at attention. Yes, today you definitely have tits, a great pair of tits that are just loving a little tit-sucking. Women with women studies degrees have breasts; women who let their boss feel them up have tits.

"Take off your top," I say, removing my mouth from your chest, interrupting your reverie.

"Here? Now?"

In response I nod.

"But—couldn't we—I mean, how about after work, we could go to a hotel, or at least wait until everyone is gone—"

I interrupt you with a sizzling French kiss; your tongue greets mine. "Now," I say in a quiet, but stern voice, my hand on your sweet face.

You cross your arms in that incredibly feminine style and pull the top over your head and off, dropping it onto the floor. You're a little shy; not so much for your smallish breasts, but for the little layer of fat that has nestled around your middle. An unwanted perk of all the sitting down and reading that the legal profession requires.

My hands reach for you, squeezing your breasts, caressing your tummy, feeling the expanse of your back. "What a lovely body," I say, "I'm so glad you decided to show it off to me." I kiss you again, then remove the clip from your hair. You long brown locks tumble down over your back and your face.

I grasp handfuls of your hair, grasp them tightly to the point that you wince a little. You feel me forcing you down, down to your knees. You submit.

When you reach your knees, you can feel the plushness of the carpet in my office. You're glad you didn't wear hose today. You wonder what the carpet will feel like on the cheeks of your ass as I thrust into you.

Without any guidance, you take me out. You feel proud; knowing that every erect inch is for you, for your body, for the soulful sexuality of you in just an average spaghetti strap top. While you suck, you hear my phone ringing; you hear people passing by in the hallway. You should not be doing this in your boss's office. You should not be doing this in the middle of the day.

But we can't stop ourselves. I can't stop from moaning nasty little nothings to you why you fellate me. You can't stop from letting me slide your little just-another-day-at-the-office cotton panties off of you. You can't stop yourself from opening your legs, showing me your hairy, wet cleft.

And when I turn you over, onto your hands and knees, you can't stop yourself from grunting, like an animal in heat. And I don't want to stop myself when I slap your soft round ass, making it jiggle.

"You have a nice ass," I tell you, while I thrust into you, holding hard onto your hips.

"Th-thank y-you," you say, receiving my thrusts and thrusting back at me.

"Your bottom is nice and plump," I continue, "perfect for spanking," I say as I give you another whack.

It's wrong to be naked at the workplace. It is wrong to get fucked at the work place. It is wrong to be on your hands and knees at the workplace. It is wrong to get fucked doggie style by your boss at the workplace. It is wrong to let your boss fuck you in his office without a condom on. It is wrong to love it. It is wrong to let your boss call you dirty names as he holds your body and screws your little pussy. It is wrong to tell him that yes, you are his little bitch, you are his little slut, you are his little whore. It is wrong to feel that you are a whore in the middle of the day in the office, it is wrong to love being a whore, to simply adore the fact that you are so sexy it makes an attractive, powerful man just wild to fuck you.

Worst of all, it is really, really wrong to have an orgasm from a man who is most definitely not your boyfriend. But then, what your boyfriend doesn't know won't hurt him.

You can feel me getting close, and it is no surprise when I ask you to get back on your knees. You do so, sitting back so your ass rests on your calves. From your vantage point of just inches away, you watch as I finish myself, spraying the stickiness of my manhood onto your pert breasts. You're holding your breasts—correction, your tits—up to me, as an offering, as a worthy place for my seed.

I thank you, and we kiss again. You reach for a tissue, instead I hand you your black top. You understand what I mean; you pull the top on, over your cum-covered chest.

"Well," you say, "I guess that's the price I pay for wearing a revealing top."