Lust in an Elevator

(Previously submitted on a different forum)

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Lust in an elevator

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She burst into the skyscraper lobby and, after a hard swipe of her card at the security desk, she charged for the elevators. Hair tied in a bun, tailored suit and skirt, elegant yet severe glasses, the loud clicks of her heels echoed to her brisk and determined pace. This morning's presentation was to be a killer, she radiated as a message.

Get out of my way

, was another.

This meeting was to be presented in only two weeks, but thanks to the snafu of higher executive rungs it had been rescheduled in haste for today. She seethed at the insecure corporate scrambling. Not only was she here on a Saturday morning, but she had to cancel at the last minute John's TorD invitation; an all night festivity centered on a mature version of the 'Truth or Dare' game. It could be harmless fun with some naughty confessions, or it could blow your mind away with eroticism; it all depended on the chemistry between players of that particular night. Both extremes, and the myriad of possibilities between them, were satisfying in their own right. Her eyes winced behind her rimmed glasses.

And the invitations only come once or twice a year.

She glanced at her watch. 9:15 AM. The party had ended not too long ago. She should have been home with tantalizing memories. Or at an early bird restaurant while she shared a cup of coffee with another guest, continuing their own private game, the simmer of an unspoken agreement between them. A hissed sigh passed her lips.

But no... I had to cancel for this.

She stabbed at the elevator button. Twice. Three times. At the fourth stab she almost broke her nail and relented to wait. She grounded her teeth, at least one layer of enamel being stripped away, as her eyes continued what her finger couldn't do.

Not that it'll get here faster, but it gives me something to vent on.

As imaginary knifings mellowed into wishes of bursting into flames, the ding of an arrival was heard. The button darkened, the only option it possessed to escape its impending doom.

Finally!

The doors to the leftmost elevator opened and she almost growled. As if possessed, that cabin contained a broken alarm that no handyman could repair or hear. With her luck, she'd get stuck. As she patted her cell phone for reassurance, she charged into it and into the person within.

What else can go wrong?

"Sorry," she mumbled, while gruff embarrassment melted her anger, as she realized she'd collided in a too-handsome cowboy.

Probably it's that publicity agency on the seventh floor.

"No problem M'am," was the casual reply. His response had not been warm; she had bumped into him after all. But it hadn't been cold either, as if tolerant of her irritation for a Saturday morning spent at an office. She scurried to the opposite corner of the tiny room, as she realized that her assault hadn't even budged him. Humiliation warred against annoyance as she kept her eyes to the numbered panel before her.

I ran into a human wall.

She pressed her thirty-second floor, and then told herself to calm down, that he hadn't earned her cold shoulder, and that she needed her sharp wits for this morning. She forced herself to relax, and then took a deep breath as the door closed. She lowered her eyelids at catching an unusual scent from him.

Not a cowboy scent, nor an actor's or model's either.

Patchouli, she decided, that fragrance which resembled an illegal substance, with its sweet aroma. But a spicier, muskier version of it.

Manlier.

Her nose enjoyed a second taste of the forbidden smoothness as it brought hazed memories of younger days, fogged-down but carefree moments where decorum and self-image hadn't weighed down sensuality. Her lips crawled upwards in remembrance; to the hot little mink she had been, always aiming to please as she aimed to be pleasured. Sweet hearts, hunks, studs, romantics, all had their individual advantages and had been appreciated as such. Her mouth's transformation completed, more than a mere hint of a smug smile was now revealed.

Insatiable good old days.

The memories, added to his scent, bent her head with a discreet glance at him from over the rim of her glasses. The Stetson hat shadowed his eyes into an indefinable color. A hard jaw, charactered, was softened by full lips. A fair complexion, despite being sun kissed to a tan, suggested an ease for the rise of shy colors in those cheeks. The lens supported by her nose reflected back to her the sparkle of mischievousness found in her own eyes.

He blushes, to the right words, said by the right woman.

The denim shirt was broad at the shoulders which were slightly thrown back, at ease yet ready to face a challenge. And they were made larger by his rigid posture, as indicated by the straight line of pearled buttons, with a mild void in the small of his back. That back had a real spine, but the backbone curved where it should, learned in the give and take of relationships in both business and hearts.

Knows who he is, no more, no less.

His chest stood out, not too much however, the defined mass revealed by faint shadows within the fabric. The curves of his pecs were a call to trace with a single nail, their inner firmness to be pressed and squeezed by appreciative fingertips, the unyieldingness and contained power to be sensed by respectful palms. Yet soft enough to welcome the feminine head who relished the protective might beneath.

And a slow, strong, heartsong echoing in the ear

.

Her gaze lowered to the faint scars and calluses on his hands; a real cowboy then. Her eyes lifted again. Corded strength was within those sleeves, raising the fabric in an arc worthy of any art piece, and instilled the urge to frame with both hands a bicep #with a girlish plea for a flex. Those arms and that chest weren't chiseled in a gym, nor in a fancy sport club; life had sculpted them. Her teeth grazed the sensitive skin of her lips.

Earned Muscles

.

Her eyes returned to the numbered panel. A discreet thigh upon thigh caress could not be resisted to the start of a warm humid reaction within her sex. A mental smile, a naughty tinted dirty while tainted with sin smile, brushed against her thoughts as she acknowledged to herself that she had kept the best for last. The boxer or brief question. She moistened the center of her lips with her tongue, swallowed while she fought the urge to glance at him again to draw out the moment, and then wetted her lips again but from corner to corner. It reminded her of the bow-tied panties she wore, one knot on each hip, a gift from her last lover a long time ago. It was a frilled and girlish private concession to the failed weekend.

How sinfully fortunate a choice for today.

She lost her private battle and her glasses sent their aim southwards. His jeans did not disappoint her as they cradled a very respectful bulge. The defined lines of his denim covered shaft made her palms tingle, her breath quicken, and she choked down a swallow to the loud promises whispered by her tropical arousal. Her own diminutive shaft, hidden beneath its hood at the apex of her thighs, answered the call and rose to wakefulness.

My, my, my, how fast the naughty girl flares up!!

She listened to the elevator music, eyes back to the panel, and tried to coax her system down to salacious excitement instead of scorched lust. The speakers teased her ears, a silent mock to her situation, with a muzak rendition of an Aerosmith classic. Much softened in its instrumental interpretation, and lyric free sanitized, it still planted the lascivious image in her mind.

Love in an elevator, how suggestively appropriate.

This decided her to further indulge herself. She rehearsed the moves, envisioned the results, and grasped the explicit image. Her glasses slipped down a fraction along her nose to her secretive shiver. Her hand floated above her bust, fingers waving to the tempo of the song, conducting both music and galloping heart beneath.

How can it hurt? Right? Right.

She moved in front of him with a curious frown, then stared at the emergency instructions with a mumble of it being a new one.

His hat was felt against her bundled hair, to his sights having tilted down to her behind. She pointed her right toes, bent her knee, and slanted her head to the side as if intrigued by the safety procedures before her eyes. Thus she had stuck her left ass cheek to him, stretching the skirt for his better view, and displayed herself as Temptation. The edge of his Stetson teased her bun once more, having tapped it and almost coaxed it to be undone as if asking to let her hair down.

Her hand slipped into her skirt's pocket, followed by the subtle untying of the laced knot at her hip through her pocket's fabric. She tasted her brazenness, inhaled her craziness, and enjoyed her exhilaration in small swallows with short breaths to fully appreciate its flavor and aroma. One last discreet tug and her private garment slipped from her thigh and off her mound. It hung from the last knot on the opposite hip, a cooler breeze against her fevered womanhood, and she wondered if the untied ends could be seen past the hem of her skirt. The small of her taut back, shivered, at the sinful image.

Her breath gained a little speed, her fingers shook as she went into the other pocket. Her fingertips were frantic; she couldn't find the elusive strands of the last knot through the pocket's fabric. She pictured the other released ends just dangling in front of him, a dirty sway of invitation, and her teeth almost chattered to her quivering chin.

Fearful victory as the knot became undone. She felt both strands part as they caressed her hip in their descent. To the deafening fall of her panties to the floor, worse than suggestive nudity beneath a dress, she became a living provocation. Breathless, ears pounding, her lip pained under her teeth. She couldn't look between her shoes, at the silk invitation lying there. She waited for his reaction. She hoped his would not be the gentleman's answer, that of picking it up for her. She would die of shame, to his refusal of meeting her on the same level, if he met her at all.

His breath caressed the nape of her neck and she was startled despite herself. She ordered her heart back into her chest, from where it had leaped out from, and told her lungs to please inflate before she passed out. She was closer to a faint than she cared to be.

Her hair became undone, now brushing against her skin, as her skirt began to rise. He was smooth, not having felt his fingers anywhere, yet his ghost of a presence heightened the moment. The fabric's slow ascent on her thighs fanned the cinders within her, but cooled her mound, as imaginary breezes teased her engorged lips.

The insatiable mink of earlier years reasserted herself, wanton and needy, the combination of a protest to last night's missed sexy opportunity and a hurray to this new unexpected one. A corner of her lips rose, a silent snarl of determination, and took charge of her own desire. It was hers, and hers alone, so she harnessed it. She breathed her own flames stronger, higher, brighter, until it almost consumed her.

Her hand was steady, but her nail shook as she reached over and pressed the stop button. The alarm forever broken, their tumultuous peace was now insured. No turning back from this moment on. The realization elevated her temperature to only a few degrees cooler than the sun's surface.

She gasped as his fingertip appeared at the bottom of her sex, shivered a spine-quake of a shudder, and her glasses slipped from their perch then fell to the floor. A kind explorer he was, a gentle probe laced in respectful flirts. She knew he smiled to her already drenched passage, at her body's eager readiness for him, and she flushed to the exhilaration of her sweetened shame to his discovery. She lived the thrill of the bad girl, the saintly femme fatale, as his fingertip was drawn, kissed, and embraced by her hungry lips.

Honed by the gentle but dexterous pleasure-giver deep within her honeyed inferno, waves of sensational fiery feelings radiated from the foundation of her femininity. Her passion incinerated propriety. She shot her heel in front of her, and then, as her trembling hand flew to her collar, she placed her bare foot against the wall beside her. A short breath steadied her fevered balance. With a slow, determined, provocative twist of her ankle she kicked off her other heel to join its twin. She placed an entire world of seduction into the sideways stretch of that leg away from her, as far as she could in ultimate temptation, and the result whetted her own needs.

He hadn't answered this provocative show, his fingers frozen inside her. Her breath shortened, nearly hyperventilating now, yet a satisfied smile slipped on her face. She didn't know his reaction, if stunned, appreciative of the spectacle, scared, or simple surprise; but she drank the power this gave her over him.

She leaned forwards and laid her trembling hands onto the emergency procedures, curved her back, stood solely on her toes and raised her hips in the warmest of welcomes. Her opened blouse hung on each side of her, hiding her chest with falling walls of fabric, yet accessible to him. She was the perfect offering, a man's dream, but one she provided to satisfy her own keened hunger for further delicious sensations.

He disappeared from within her, then her skirt rose higher, over her waist, and she melted with weakened knees as her ravenous sex was exposed to his view. A slow zipping behind her, a so very slow zipping, tightened her throat as closed her eyes to better experience what this sound announced.

His hands landed where her hips met her waist, her mouth dried as this preparative gesture, and dizziness threatened on the horizon of her senses. She fought against a helpless squirm, unable to wait, nerves frantic at the sadistic pause, and her entire system excited beyond a fevered pitch. She felt faint to the unholy pressure.

Then he was there. Next to her. Him. It. Softness. Silky. Bulbous. Masculine. Manly. Male.

His rounded key of heaven brushed against her fiery gates of paradise. She stood still, the muscles in the small of her back taut in anticipation, her private muscles contracted to her eagerness.

She cooed in relief as he parted then passed her lips, all her vital organs melted then evaporated save her thudding heart, as he slipped within her. His penis was tender, patient, and gentle as he gallantly introduced himself into her pacified, now docile, and mollified vagina as she met him to better embrace him.

That first slow, firm, decisive stroke told her more of his bedroom personality than an entire day of sexy confessions. Just as her soft, mild, harnessed hip grind told him as much about her character in intimacy. He was the master of his pleasure, sharing it with her, as she was the mistress her own while contributing to his. His member might provide the sensations, but it was she who took her pleasure from it. So she opened her flow of sensuality, let the stream of her eroticism run freely, and welcomed her wants and needs. She and he would be active participants, acute listeners to their inner pulses, taking and giving the passion exchanged or lent between them. A meeting of the minds, of the desires and of the urges.

Within her sex her sensual bump of pure nerves was brushed against by his bulbous silky head, then felt the length of him, was caressed by it. Rubbed by him. Stopped. Rubbed, caressed, her secretive tiny mound of ecstasy felt his shaft then was followed by his smooth rounded tip. It was repeated all over again. Then another followed. Once more. A delicious unhurried rhythm began. Two slow exhalations to each's voyage, his sliding exploration of her heated inner depth, her molded discovery of his rigid outer length.

She willed her sleek interior to cocoon him, comfort him, to make himself at home in her femininity. His erection became personified fulfillment, to soothe her, to indulge herself as she pleased with his offered masculinity. And she did. She escaped his incoming strokes as she pursued his retreating ones, all to prolong the sensation and heighten their enjoyment.

Faint, weak kneed, within her arched spine pleasure chased desire. Her palms were sweaty, slipping from the elevator wall. Her consciousness floated, spiraled upwards, and couldn't lift her eyelashes which were heavy with languid torpor.

His grip shifted her pelvis higher. With her back arched, her hips at their highest, balance became delicate. She was suspended on his erection, on her hands pressed to the wall, on his hold on her waist. On her tippiest of tippytoes, she stood only on half of her toe pads. She hung her head with a quivering exhalation, then her breath caught, as his slide became perfect, her glide flawless.

She had gained that last measure of his length, his hardened arousal plunged at a sublime angle with a firmer massage of her hidden spot, her tightened wetness now more pronounced; all sensations were multiplied into a vivid image of his presence within her mind.

She surrendered to the precarious position, unable to resist its effect on her charged system. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, her calves vibrated to the strain, and her hard breath shortened into loud pants. Back and forth he stroked her sex, her passion, her flames, and her loss of control.

Her fingers crisped, her heightened perceptions pleaded for less as her sharpened senses begged for more, and clawed at the panel to the surreal intensity. Her tummy contracted, her limbs became vibrating stone to their tautness. Her pores tingled with unreleased orgasmic energy, her skin almost bursting at the seems. She was moments away, and she choked on a gasp by a voice strangled from the power of it.

He slowed.

Insanity. He coaxed her building climax to mind numbing levels, yet without releasing her, as he further decelerated. Maddened insanity. She whimpered as she squirmed, the wait unholy, the loss of her ability to speak --to plead- was devilish. Crazed maddened insanity.

His slowest plunge was torture. She felt his every vein, his every fold of his skin, every tiny detail of him. That edged rim so round, so soft, and so smooth as it caressed her walls. His precise shape burned itself into her brain. He was still master of his pleasure. She was now slaved to hers, unthinking, all restraints evaporated and control relinquished to her body. A body slowly sexed in all of its mind-shattering glory.

His silken head left her completely, leaving her empty, alone. She began a wordless cry of denial, but he pushed forwards again, and it brought out a feminine grunt which had risen from deep within her throat. His erection crawling within her, he hit that sensitive mound again, triggering her climax, and she fell into the abyss of her accumulated ecstasy as it engulfed her.

Sunlight poured into her veins, warmed her blood to her fingertips, flooded her mind with eroticized bliss; drowned in the beauty of the most primal form. She shivered, shuddered, then trembled, as he continued to caress her passage with his engorged length. Her ongoing, unbroken, mindless cry reverberated in the cabin.

Her mind gone, somewhere high above, living pleasure coursed in her soul. Inching within, he filled her offered space, snuggled his erection into her warm folds, and her cry became a scream as she exploded again. Still he edged forwards, further explored her.

Then he laid still.

She choked on a sob of relief, her molding of his presence so utterly complete, she knew nothing but him and her. She tasted the sweat on her bitten lips. Saw the blur of her four hands on the wall. Felt the sweet pain of her ribs to her struggled panting. Ears pounded to her racing heart. Elevated toes cramped. Back strained to her highest peaks of head and romp. He pulsated within her; she felt her beating tissue around him. Raw throated, his retreat would be heavenly excruciation, and leave her voiceless. If not mute in overdosed pleasure.