Paring Dec

She slid into the car at exactly 7:00am.

Just like she does every morning.

Angela is thirty-five years old.

She is beautiful, she is highly educated, and she is rich.

Angela works in my building. By all accounts, she is a paragon of success. She is a rising star in her company; the corporate mistress of all she surveys. Women envy her and men want to be with her.

But Angela is also the victim of a wonderfully terrible secret.

Me.

This morning she was wearing a navy suit with a cream-colored blouse, conservatively cut to show only the slightest hint of cleavage, with dark stockings and a pair of snappy heels. She'd topped it off as usual with her long mink coat. I'd asked her about the coat one time while we stood waiting for the shuttle, and she'd said it was a gift from her grandmother in Georgia. I've always thought it was a little pretentious, but it's not my choice.

For my part, I had dressed in a dark gray suit and a black topcoat. The weather required such measures, even if they did get in the way of things.

I couldn't see her eyes. Angela almost always wore a pair of DKNY sunglasses, and this morning was no different. I think something about meeting my eyes is difficult for her.

After all, it's no easy thing to suck a man's cock every morning and then ignore him for the rest of the day.

She looked at me for a moment and then turned to lock the door.

Why she does this, why she locks the door at all, I am not sure, since it could not possibly prevent anyone from discovering us.

Not that I'd really care if anyone discovered us. If I were caught, I could laugh it off. After all, being a man amongst men has its advantages.

But for Angela, it would ruin her.

It's not just that she'd suffer the humiliation of her coworkers' ridicule; rather, I had come to realize that her own inherent sense of being genteel would be totally destroyed were she 'outed' for the slut she is.

And believe you me, that sense of being genteel, of being just a little more cultured than the rest of us, is something that she clings to. You can see it in the way she walks; in the way that her words are carefully chosen so as to never be anything other than cultured; in the manner of her dress; in the way she eats. Angela personifies the fine southern woman; I've heard others note this with a mixture of admiration and envy, seen other women hold her at a distance because they feel diminished by the very grace and breeding she exudes.

Most think she's the acme of a southern lady.

I know differently.

I know it's all a facade. I know how her need burns within her, and how she's caught in the deliciously terrible predicament of being unable to satisfy her own cravings. How she has to seek out sexual release from another to satiate her hunger.

And only I know that each and every day she wages an inner struggle between the better angels of her southern, upper-class upbringing and the dark, hungry sexual demons that are her true self.

It's a battle I am happy to help her lose.

Having locked the door, she turned back toward me and smiled, and then quickly bent to her task. Fingers graced by an upscale boutique manicure swiftly unzipped my suit pants and reached in to deftly pull out my cock. I was semi-aroused at this point – only a man dead from the waist down wouldn't be turned on by the sight of a hot brunette diving for his cock – and savored the feeling of her warm hand embracing my shaft.

Withdrawing me to the fullest extent possible by my suit pants, she grasped me with one head and bent to plant a kiss on the head of my cock, blessing it with her lipstick. It's some shade that is stylish, one with an expensive name I am sure most women would recognize, even if I don't.

Not that I care. Angela is always very careful to leave my cock as clean as she found it when she's done.

I could see the full curves of her breasts falling forward out of her blouse, with just the smallest hint of black lace supporting them. From what I've seen, her breasts are small but pert, and present a fine contrast to her long, well-toned legs.

Her tongue swirled around the head of my cock, sending a shock of sensation through me. I groaned and stiffened in her hand, and in response she began to stroke me gently.

As my arousal increased, she began to move her hand faster. She was very talented, and knew how to apply just the right combination of grip and rhythm to achieve maximum effect.

I could feel my cock begin to pulse in her hand.

She swirled her tongue around the head of my cock again, and I shivered in response, pushing myself back and down a little into my seat.

Angela looked up at me, her brown eyes just visible over the tops of her DKNY sunglasses and smiled, pausing for effect so I could see the tip of her tongue poised atop my throbbing member. Something about having a throbbing cock in her hand really gets her really excited.

Her grip was firm but gentle, and the soft skin of her hands was warm to the touch. I pulsed once for good effect and heard her giggle a little, more from amusement at my antics than anything else.

Up and down, up and down, slow at first, often breaking her pace just to torment me. Angela let out a long slow breath, using the heat of it to stimulate the wetness her tongue had just placed, sending shivers down my shaft, tiny shivers that made me lick my lips and gasp slightly.

When I start to get really aroused like this, it resonates with her.

My pleasure becomes her pleasure, which makes her all the more eager.

I groaned and pushed back against the seat, enjoying the feel of her on me, the way her tongue swirled across the head and then down the shaft, only to rise and swirl again, only with more pleasure.

She didn't take me into her mouth yet, choosing instead to work the length of my shaft with her lips and her tongue, taking her time as it drove me further and further into distraction.

Fine beads of sweat broke out of my forehead and I reached up to loosen a button on my collar. Her murmur of satisfaction was pure music.

Knowing that she has this effect on me, that I crave her so.

Angela moaned softly and reached out with her other hand to lightly run her fingers across my scrotum. Lovingly, greedily, she moved down, licking and sucking my scrotum, lavishing it with her tongue. I know she loves the feeling of my balls moving within that delicate sac, loves the feel of that fine, smooth skin against her lips and her tongue. So I indulge her appetites.

Not that that is difficult.

All the while I could hear her breath coming faster, hear the faintest hint of a mewling moan at the back of her throat.

One of the parts of these morning exchanges that I savor the most is that the very act of sucking my cock gets her incredibly aroused, so much that she often cums when I do.

Frankly, it's fascinating, because I've yet to lay a finger on her. One of the ground rules she set down was that she wanted to do this to me; she didn't want me to play with her or touch her in any way. It's not something I am entirely happy with, as the sight of her each morning tests my self-restraint to the fullest, but I can live with it.

I don't know where she developed that insatiable hunger, and I have no idea how long she's had to deal with those cravings.

What I do know is that I met her at a formal cocktail hour hosted by management, one designed to introduce the members of her law firm to the members of mine. Some passing guest must have bumped her, because before I knew it this beautiful stranger I'd only ever seen in passing had been pushed up against me, her drink splashing onto my shirt and pants. With the press of the crowd her hands brushing against me body didn't seem at all unnatural – until she moved them, her fingertips drawing fiery lines across my thigh.

Before I could adjust to that surprise, her hand slipped down to my crotch.

At first I thought it was some alcohol-induced attempt to clean up the liquor she'd spilled on me.

But then she cupped my cock gently, and smiled.

Her eyes told me she was completely sober.

No one could see us, and so she let her hand linger there for a long moment.

My heart raced in those few seconds, even as I throbbed unabashedly in her hand.

I'd been standing with a coworker at the time, sipping a Manhattan and making idle conversation when he'd ducked off to go chat up a friend.

For the moment, however, Carrie was gone to the bathroom and Angela's hand was in my lap.

Whether it was genuinely by accident, I am not quite sure, but the sparkle in her eye told me then and there that she liked what she'd found.

She must have seen John returning, for she was suddenly gone in a whirl of perfume, leaving me standing there slightly dazed from the raw sexuality of her gaze.

Needless to say I couldn't sleep that night.

Angela was all I could think about.

I could hear the first audible stirrings of her talents; the soft gentle mewling sounds that were beginning to come from her. Evidence that she was getting aroused too, that the feeling of my thick cock in her mouth was having its effect.

Angela's hand took a staccato rhythm now, moving quickly down the shaft and the stopping with a jerk that made me twitch each time. As she did this, she'd lick my cockhead, looking up at me over her glasses to watch me move.

The throbs of pleasure jolting up my cock from that wonderful mouth of hers were becoming quite intense; they were reaching a point where I was going to start losing my own control.

So I pressed my hands downward, one against the top of the passenger seat and another against the arm rest to my left.

As if reading my mind, she moved in the passenger seat, spreading her legs so that her navy skirt rode high to reveal the lacey tops of her gartered stockings. With another small moan she withdrew her hand from my scrotum and pushed it down between her own legs.

I looked, as I do every morning, but I'll be damned if I could see even the faintest hint of her panties.

As usual, her questing hand blocked the view.

Which was fine by me. The sights and sounds of her masturbating while she went down on me were made my blood boil almost as much the intensity with which she applied her mouth to the task at hand.

Her lovely brunette head bobbed once and instantly my cock was engulfed in a universe of warm, wet suction.

Why she chose me, I am not sure.

What I do know is that that following Monday morning she came into my office, closed the door, and told me in no uncertain terms that she was going to suck my cock. And then, with only an unlocked door between myself and the rest of my firm, she knelt before me and went down on me like a pro.

I don't think I've ever cum so hard in my life as I did that morning. It took me minutes to compose myself to the outward observer, but hours to get my mind back to something approaching center; the images of her kneeling before me, and then casually sashaying out when she was finished were simply too much to deal with in such a short time.

And, for the next four days she came to my office. She said little and asked nothing of me. For my part, I had the surprising foresight to shut up, ask no questions and simply focus on remembering to lock the door.

The following week I asked her to meet me in the parking deck instead, and after an initial moment of her upper class mores being offended at the prospecting of sucking my cock in a car like some common street walker, she acquiesced. Despite her objections, I think the location gets her wet.

My shaft was straight and hard, its throbbing, steely length coated with her saliva. She switched hands and reached up with her right to grip me, adding her own wetness to the mix as she stroked me.

Her other hand was buried in her own lap, pistoning against her pussy as she moaned loudly around my cock.

I could smell her, smell her sex, a heady scent unique to her that filled my nostrils and thrust its tendrils into my brain.

Sometimes, after a long day, I could still smell her in my car, the sweet musky smell of her sex; it was enough to get me hard, even hours later.

I was completely engulfed in her, held at the ragged edge of reason by the delirious application of her tongue and her throat.

Slowly, she'd sink down onto my shaft, taking in the full length of me, working her tongue against my shaft even as she did so. And then, when I was fully within her, when I could see nothing but the top of her head buried in my lap, she'd pause, holding me there against the back of her throat, feeling me twitch and throb within, until she could stand it now more.

And with a wet throaty pop she'd release me, raising her head as she gasped for air, growling out her desire for more as she took in a lungful of air before sinking back down on me.

The wet noises of her sucking me into her mouth roared in my ears.

Mesmerized, I watched her hand push her skirt even higher, the scent of her wet sex filling my car.

How she could concentrate like this, how she could even think to touch herself when she was wrapped around the pulsing shaft in her mouth was beyond me.

But I loved her for it.

As I sat there, reveling in her presence, and tormenting myself with what I wanted but couldn't have, she pressed her tongue against the underside of my cock and a strange tingling heat coursed the length of my shaft. It was torture.

Because in reality, while I enjoyed these morning trysts for what they were, I longed to soak her with my seed, to spasm out my joy onto her face, her breasts, her hair, to take that inscrutable mask of southern womanhood that she wore each and every day and cast it aside, to watch her shiver and moan her way to a shattering orgasm as I fuck her roughly and well.

This woman was a tigress, a sexual being like you only read about, and yet she was trapped in a cage of her own making. I knew she could be a lover like none I'd ever had, if only I could find a way to release her.

But I couldn't.

After four months of this, I had come to accept that.

So I leaned back and let myself enjoy the moment, feverish from her talents as she drove me ever closer to release.

Best of all, her fine hands continued to work their magic against her clit, tearing loud mewling cries from her in a way I couldn't.

Still, despite my best efforts, I couldn't see her panties. And as a guy who went to catholic schools, who became fully aware of the beauty of the female form amidst a sea of lovely, coltish legs clad in short, pleated plaid, seeing a woman's panties when she's wearing a skirt is key.

Outside the sun was shining and I could see people going to work, blissfully unaware that I was getting a blowjob while they were headed to meetings and paperwork.

The poor bastards.

Over the tops of her sunglasses, I could see Angela close her eyes as she ran her tongue over my hard shaft, feeling me twitch and pulse.

Her cheeks hollowed out and then filled with the push and flow of her efforts, even as her long lashes fluttered with her own excitement.

I was getting close, and she knew it.

She began to really bob up and down, pursing her lips to create a tight, firm suction. Angela's mouth embraced me, held me there, working the length of me with a determined fervor that sent shockwaves of pleasure through my body. I began to lose focus, began to feel hot from the intensity of it all.

My ears were filled with noise, some of it my ragged moans, some of it hers, some of it simply the wet, hungry noises of her talents.

Spasms began to rock me as my cock twitched and shuddered in her mouth. I knew that by know the taste of me was rich in her mouth, that she was wet with desire from it.

Every day this drama of sex and secret desire plays itself out. Five days a week she comes to me like this. I've suggested that she meet me for drinks on a Saturday night, and each time I receive the same polite refusal.

But I keep after her; I know that each day her resolve crumbles a little more in the face of her hunger.

I can see it, you know; there are little signs that only a man blessed by her talents as a fellatrix would recognize: a glance that lingers just a little too long when passing in the lobby, the odd brush of contact in the lunchroom. At best, the casual observer might think that she simply had a crush on me; they couldn't possibly see that these are the signs of a resolve born of class and upbringing dissolving in the face of the realities of her daily ritual.

So I wait, watching the signs and pushing ever so gently, here and there; patient in my resolve to win her for myself.

At last I could stand no more. Angela was keening with desire, her hand furiously working against her clit, the smell of her need filled my car, clinging to my nostrils, driving my own lusts on.

I must have moaned, because she stopped and looked at me, her sunglasses askew, her brown eyes glistening with hunger and mischief.

"No more..." I gasped, "no more..."

She smiled then, a Chesirecat grin, and resumed her sucking, stopping at the top of each bob to run her tongue firmly across the head of my cock.

On the fourth iteration I exploded into her mouth, panting as I shuddered with the pleasures of the little death.

Angela swallowed it all, hungrily drinking in my seed as she came as well. My shaft muffled her moans, but I knew from the sound of things and the way her body bucked against mine that this morning's release was particularly intense.

She lingered, slowing the movement of her head as my release weakened in its intensity and her own inner hunger diminished.

At last, when I'd truly, finished, she held me in her mouth, cleaning me thoroughly, before releasing me.

I weakly tucked my cock back into my pants, watching as the airs of her upper class bearing reasserted themselves. Lipstick was applied and two pieces of gum designed to freshen the breath were taken. Her hair was soon impeccable again, and her skirt readjusted so as to show no signs that it had ever been so violently cast aside in deference to any untoward sexual appetites.

She looked at me, her gaze somewhat cool behind those dark sunglasses, "Shall we go?"

Her voice was like honey, full of satisfaction, with just a hint of smugness.

And just like that she was gone, exiting my car and heading down the steps of the parking deck to the waiting commuter shuttle below.

I waited a minute and then grabbed my briefcase and followed.

We rode up the elevator in silence, crowded in together at the back of the car by the press of those racing to start their days.

I could smell her perfume in the confined space, mixed with the subtle scent of her sex.

Her hand brushed against mine, ever so gently. I looked at her and saw the faintest tracings of a grin. Something about this morning had her feeling naughty.

For good measure, I cupped her ass as we stood there. As expected, it was firm and taut, the product of good genes and exercise. She pushed back into my hand, just a little, just enough to tell me she enjoyed my touch, and I swear I heard a tiny little gasp from her.

Then the bell rang, signaling we'd arrived at her floor. She stepped away from me and was gone.

But just before the doors closed, she turned and winked.

Tomorrow was going to be a good day.