Based on my marginal understanding of human psychology, an even shakier perception of the Jenkins activity survey, Wanda is definitely a Type A personality. Insatiably ambitious, a champion competitor, a seeker of recognition, she hungers to win, be victorious in all things. She values the laurels, the bonuses, the perks of merit. Her in a nutshell, but out of the office she is playful and pleasingly submissive. Away from the stresses she imposes on herself, Wanda of the boudoir, naked, ready to be guided, raunchy, explicit in her desires, purrs and pants, wants nothing but to please, to make a bedmate quiver from her giving pleasure.
Wanda next to me, my member dancing in the air, she takes me in her mouth, between her legs, in her ass. My long, narrow cock with its greater surface area then something smaller and stubbier is acutely sensitive to her friction, the sensations she imparts.
Some slip up, see her as nothing but artifice, a fair-haired bimbo closeted in a superbly healthy body, a spectacular bust in clinging fabric featuring yards of cleavage. Legs ornamented in filmy nylon and high heeled come fuck me pumps as an invitation for her invasion.
Of course, I fall into no such trap. I see her sexual topography, all its varied shapes, angles and planes. I want in her pants just as others do, but I see more then her sexual side however impressive it may be. Her shrewd intelligence and business acumen are remarkable to behold. She loves T.S. Eliot's and Emily Dickinson's poetry, character driven, well written films, picnicking in a park, shedding her shoes, going barefoot, eating cold chicken and potato salad out of a wicker hamper. She is at once charming and assertive, clever and resourceful.
Her office on the forty-third floor, one wall all shinning glass looking out on other Emerald City high rise buildings. In her workplace she plays down her sexy contours, her sexual manner and her submissive nature. She wears spectacles, big glass ovals over intensely blue eyes, just a smidgen of lipstick, eye shadow and rouge as cosmetics. Her subtle scent of perfume is not too eager, too compelling. Working in this stylish, comfortable office her flaxen hair is sometimes arranged in a ponytail or contained in a tight bun. She wears high heels, old school ones, the kind my mother wore in the sixties working in the Sam Klein's real estate office in downtown Indianapolis.
I a writer living in a rustic cabin in the woods far from Emerald City; Wanda my literary agent is another man's wife. Tim, her husband, a respected tax attorney, another Type A personality, favors flashy cars and hand made Italian shoes, a titian-haired woman as a mistress. Named Stacey, she dotes on him, does what he desires, lives in the pleasurable comfort of a posh condominium he settled her in two years ago. Fiercely protective of her bisexuality, Stacey finds wickedness stepping through her body as her female lover enters a bed sold to the highest bidder, freshly vacated by Tim, and still sizzling with spent lust. Her partner laps Tim's paid out sperm, and then these Sapphic lovers fall asleep in contented bliss.
Wanda, Stacey's Sapphic lover, keeps this secret from the husband yet tells me.
My agent since
A VIXEN'S KISS
, my first book to do business before being unceremoniously tossed on the nearest discount table; Wanda sucked my cock for the first in this office nearly a year and a half ago. After she stripped from her clothes, we fucked on the sofa; I saw her unbound breasts for the first time. Breasts, if I was her child, I'd wish to suckle on until I was five or six. On the chic furniture she favors, I sucked each breast until my mouth was quite numb. My trousers tightly bound about my ankles, I must have looked foolish above her. Her mountainous bosoms still beckoning me, I gripped them firmly, bunched them about my hard member and fucked them as an adjunct pussy, then did the same to her mouth.
Wanda, tough, ballsy negotiator, cell phone always at the ready, a Blackberry Pearl often palmed in her hand husbands my career, earns me much more then my middling talent should hope. My latest book,
THE MURDEROUS MADAM
, is doing some lucrative business, a short blast of it, before it falls off the scope. Wanda is working a deal with a producer in Hollywood, not first string, but still a player, to sell the book's movie rights. I want Gretchen Dixon, the amply busted actress with the gravelly voice to play the main character.
"Good morning, Mrs. Johnson." My salutation complete, I stroll into Wanda's inner sanctum.
I always feel like the cock of the walk, entering Wanda's office on these quarterly visits. Today is no different. I smell her lavender scent; her blonde hair drifts down on her back, beige pumps with three inch heels on her feet over the sheerest stockings. She is wearing her glasses, a cream colored skirt and a matching jacket with a white silk blouse underneath. Sitting well behind her desk, talking on the telephone, she is wheeling and dealing, toying with a gold Cross ink pen in her right hand. Her legs up on the desktop, feet crossed at the ankles, the skirt forming a neat line above her knees, she immediately has my attention. I doubt she is wearing panties or a brassiere.
