Pacage Transit

Given the morning's dreamlike beginning, the exposition's chaos and frenetic energy comes as little surprise. It occurs to you that Minister Jun's erratic behavior might be explained by an overindulgence in substance dependency, perhaps one that he

especially

enjoyed here in the American South where the powder flowed through Miami, leaving a trail of damaged septums and swollen bank accounts. His questions were like broken, coke-dusted glass scattered perilously across linoleum floor; the whole goal here was to, of course, convince him to borrow specifically from your institution to finance a "ferociously lucrative bridge project" in his province, and he constantly interrupted your patient explanation with further, tangential questions.

His coterie of functionaries and attaches, translators and flunkies looked like they were running on fumes, frustration and fear - his wrath comes down on a stick-thin girl with bags under her eyes who was unable to open some online state funds-transfer account (he couldn't remember his password); you watch with the emotional distance of a bystander witnessing spousal abuse as he castigates her publicly, meaty fists flailing at his sides. She hunches beneath the weight of his berating, silently absorbing his fury, speckling her glasses with his spittle for a good five minutes that are dilated in your mind to eternity.

Her broken soul, staring hollow from her eyes after he finishes screaming at her, haunts you and is likely to invade your dreams; the rest of Jun's coterie shuns the poor girl for the rest of the morning, as if she'd been marked for excommunication. You could never tolerate such treatment...right?

Lunchtime brings further evolution and extension of your chores - for fuck's

sakes

you're a financial specialist, not a goddamn

helot

- as you are sent down to the server room to deliver a personal summons to Mahmud, who (as usual) was not answering on Slack. Understandable at this hour since he was, after all, on

break

and not at the beck and call of management to attend to Minister Jun's sudden, rabid curiosity about server security.

Finally...you have some alone time. Despite the grumbling of your empty stomach the thought of eating seems like further work and expense since you don't have time to cook, and it was so much easier to just stay down here in this dimly illuminated grotto of humming, purple-rimmed mainframes, blinking with rhythmic lights like emeralds and topazes in a smooth vein...like a quieter, isolated version of the subway car in some ways.

Your thoughts eagerly unchain themselves from babysitting your dusty-nosed visitor and his cringing entourage, and curl like smoke around the image of Aram in the dimly lit subway car with you. You recall the lurid details, since those were your favorites.

The attentive tenderness of his thin, curved lips against your own, kissing you like you were beautiful. Special. Someone he actually liked...

That beautiful, fulsome crown of his, sticky with his precum and your arousal, clefting roughly against the node of your desire and sending you into shaky paroxysms of euphoria...

His forceful ejaculation with its masculine velocity, splashing against the train car wall; how would that feel inside of you? The risk-taking, impulsive part of your brain pictures it, his hands on your hips and holding you against him as he fills you with his heat...

"Ohhh man...okay, breathe..." You work to take note of objects in your environment - a coping mechanism in the otherwise violent neighborhoods of your home city, where a powerful filter was all that stood between mental stability and trauma. Ever the perceptive one (another survival trait) when you weren't completely and utterly sunk beneath the weight of your thoughts (a survival deficit), you notice a slip of cheerful blue poking out from underneath a mainframe panel. On closer inspection, you realize it's an ID lanyard, and with a click of your heels against the hard, sterile floor you bend down and snatch it out.

"Well now." The words purr from your lips with feline intrigue, easily recognizing the regal face of that man from the elevator...the

other

one whose cock you'd groped in a risky, public space. Even now as the good Samaritan in you immediately thinks to return it, the smooth-talking devil on your shoulder simply suggests:

why not use it?

You:

For what?

As if you have to ask...

Devil:

Oh darling...you know for what. You know what you want from him - daresay he wants it too, don't you think?

You:

...I literally just got invited to do something after work with a nice guy -

Devil:

But you're horny. He's handsome, and he's got a nice penis. Admit it, you're not satisfied with a dry-hump and jerk on a train.

You:

Are you suggesting I what, call him down to -

Devil:

- fuck you in this dark, secure room with long-broken cameras?

You:

...Okay.

He has quite the name, you note - Tiberius Gantz, and with that information it's easy to find his Slack ID; he always has a tablet with him and he seems like the type who has it together enough to check his messages (unlike Mahmud). Your fingers hover over the keys of your own device, floating and unsure of what exactly to say to him; what would he think? Would he just presume that you're inviting him down here for sex (which you were)? If he did, would he make the first move, or would you have to initiate? You certainly had done so with Aram, which brought into question a lot of preconceived notions about your character that you realize were simply...costumes.

This whole exterior of yours, a prim and proper, completely unsexual and sober banker who was nonetheless somewhat sexualized by her choice of attire...was it just a fluttering paper mask tied to your sleeves by silken cord? How many did you wear, and what was the true being underneath?

Maybe...the Devil on your Left Shoulder wasn't even your conscience but the true essence of your identity.

You stop thinking so hard; you seek your inner desire, latch on, and allow it to do the talking.

AnastasiaS: Hey Tiberius, I found your ID down here in BN20 🙂

The reply comes in mere seconds, the icon of a pencil typing out a message electrifying your pulse.

TiberiusG: Hi there Anastasia, I was wondering where I put it. You saved me a lot of trouble, I owe you one. I'll come down and get it, no need to bring it or turn it in.

Devil:

Hmm hmm, he owes you one now...I think I know how you'll ask him to repay the favor.

Of course you know. You realize you're still wearing the stiff Six-Sigma mask, and probably won't even bother to take it off when he comes down here but they say over 40% of human communication is non-verbal.

You spend a couple of minutes fretting about where you should wait - standing in the middle of the room? Sexily reclined across a desk? Casually leaning against a mainframe? Maybe instead you could slip out, leave his ID in there and make some pithy excuse about needing to jet off to some meeting but before you can act, the heavy security door gives a muted, electronic -blerrrp- and slides open. You're standing in the middle of the room where you'd been pacing like a restless cat in heat, his lanyard wrapped around your fingers, when your gaze meets his.

You realize that you can't see his eyes, only the reflection of those gem-bright lights embedded in server frames. Whatever seductive, candlelight conversation you'd front-loaded dies on the tip of your tongue, which runs over your lips at the sight of him.

He's wearing a dark purple suit jacket that stunningly outlines his track-star's physique; it has to be custom tailored to his wire-hard frame. A patterned silver tie, smooth as silk, slides your eyes down the center of his chest to his waistband and you recall your tawdry exploits yesterday with this man; your clit buzzes with excitement with each brush of your underwear against it, pressing against the fabric and you realize you're rubbing your thighs together.

A few seconds pass, and you watch his eyebrow arch delicately with his approach. "Miss...Anastasia? Pleasure to finally know your name." Wow...truly a King of Masks; if you didn't know any better you'd think you hallucinated running your fingers up and down his shaft, but there's something to that smile that's just a little too confident...like a joke shared privately between you, and even though you're profoundly nervous, you are drawn into the game.

"Mm-hmm," you purr, smirking back at him and holding his ID tag out for him to take - the moment his fingers brush the red fabric, however, you snatch it back, showing a hint of white teeth and taking a few steady steps back, seating yourself on the edge of a desk. "Pleasure indeed, Mister Tiberius."

He opens his mouth to say something again - men, always ruining the moment by talking too much - so you simply put your finger to your lips.

"Shhh..."

Then again, most men of quality will follow a woman's lead and seeing that he has your tacit consent, you can't help but notice the shift of something long, hard, and desirable beneath the dark fabric of his slacks. He's a performer in his own way, sliding his suitcoat off his shoulders, an off-white, paisley-printed collared shirt beneath tight against his chest and shoulders, his arms and all the right places. He's wonderfully fit, in a different way than Aram whose physique reminds you of a Greek athlete; Tiberius' long torso beckons your fingers as he grows near, and you part your thighs beneath the pretty, shiny green skirt with the slit up the side you'd changed into.

He steps between them and you give a low, subdued sound of desire as you run your fingers up from his lower belly, over the definition of his abs and chest; not an inch of fat on his lean body, and when his hands find your hips you grab his tie and tug him close to kiss you.

Again it's so different...Aram's kiss was delicate and sweet, only a hint of tongue tracing and teasing the tip of your own, whereas Tiberias simply takes what he desires and you

love

both. His touch slides down the lotion-smoothness of your thighs, your pussy growing flush and soaked with need once again, anticipating the second orgasm of the day

from another person

. His lips break from yours, the tip of his nose brushing your cheek as he takes in the strawberry-lavender scent of your shampoo, teeth finding your neck. His cheeks are smooth-shaven and professional, and as your fingers slip between the spaces of his shirt's buttons you notice he is so hairless as to be Elfin.

You grope along his shaft, this time working it free from his slacks and exhaling with need when your fingers finally move along the length and girth, sprung from its cloth prison...dirty, unrestrained thoughts follow suit and grow tall in your mind, inspiration for how you're going to violate your company's code of ethics, and you seize on the first idea with glee.

You push his shoulders gently, and at first a questioning look of concern crosses his face - consideration, rather than the disgruntlement of a man interrupted is a green flag - but understanding dawns in his eyes when a chair touches the backs of his knees. He settles back, and you pull his pants further down to admire the shape of his cock standing proud and dark, glinting in the lowlit server grotto. Settling on your knees before him, your gaze only leaves his to close with a pleased sigh when your lips wrap around the thick, juicy shape of his glans.

Tiberius' low moan reminds you of aromatic, freshly ground coffee, of the shifting earth, reverberating gently against the tip of your tongue as you swirl it from the head of his penis down to the ridge of his crown, sliding back his foreskin and softly stimulating him as you suckle with care and skill. You've been told by those fortunate enough to experience your silvered, talented tongue that you were among the best they'd had, and the sight of his fingers curling into the edges of the office chair only confirm your acumen.

You bob your head up and down slowly, dark, shimmering curtain of your hair hiding one eye as you gaze upward at his handsome face, focused on the skill with which you gently fellate him. Uncut in contrast to Aram, his manhood is mostly straight but for a slight bent to the right; his testicles are heavy in your palm as you cup them, wrapping around him and swallowing him down, all the way to the base of his lance - something of a party trick you'd learned.

When you finally pull your lips free, releasing him with a wet kiss against the underside of his shaft, you can see his precum slowly forming a pearl on the tip; the sight drives you

mad

, but it's the way he gently touches you under his chin, tipping your head back so you can smile at each other that drives you to mount him.

You're wet enough that you don't even need much foreplay to take him inside.

You let him do the honors of pulling your panties down your thighs, a line of your juices sticking to them; the sight makes his cock throb winsomely, and as you hike your skirt up and settle yourself in his lap, you seize his shaft and luxuriate in the sensation of splitting your swollen lips against him. You paint the underside of his haft with your arousal, much as you did with Aram - the scandal of doing this with two different men on the same day rears in your mind like a stubborn mule, only this time it is exciting rather than shameful.

He unbuttons your blouse, cupping your breasts in their lacy black lingerie, fingertips brushing over your nipples beneath; you're unable to restrain a sound of need from your lips as you press a hand against your lips, groaning against the joint of your thumb and wrist. Without question, without care, you roll your hips forward and take him inside of you.

The sensation of a man's glans entering your wetness, a sort of rough -pop- that makes you gasp, absolutely melts you against him. Your legs give out and he catches you against his slender torso, adoring the way he moves a hand down to hold the round firmness of your ass while he guides you up and down his shaft. Each rolling motion of your hips takes him deeper, and soon you've managed to engulf every inch of him inside of you - he...flexes his cock, or something like that, and the sensation of it hardening and shifting within you triggers pleasure you'd never encountered before.

"Hah,

anh

fuck..." you break the quiet you yourself imposed, holding onto his shoulders and enjoying the focused effort in his eyes, the way they devour your body while your hungry, wet sex grinds his manhood against those deep, secret places within. "You're...really handsome, I'm sorry - this isn't how I am normally," you insist.

Devil:

Liar

.

"I'm honored and privileged, I know," he hisses against your lips, reaching down and touching your clitoris - electrical, buzzing pleasure at his attention spreads through your pelvis, interrupting your riding motions so that he can simply guide you. First one finger, then two moving in circles over that node, driving you raving stark mad and careening toward the plateau of your own pleasure.

"Wait..." you rise from his lap and turn around, smirking with your panties hanging around one leg and looking over your shoulder at him as you slide your suit coat off. You grip his shaft, squeezing it by the base as you settle back down and watch with fascination as his black, shiny glans clefts over your rock-hard pearl. Taking him back inside of you, you recline with your back against his chest and ring your arm around his neck. Reverse cowgirl was one of your trademark positions, and he seems to understand precisely how to take advantage of it.

It's some of the best sex you've ever had with a man; from this angle his cock presses wonderfully against your G-spot with each movement of your hips, and he never stops attending to your clitoris even as his other hand runs from your breasts, down your flat, smooth belly, finding a hold on your thigh.

You find his testicles again, enjoying the sensation of them rolling around your palm and massaging him; the telltale signs of his own climax are approaching...the tightening in the base of his cock, the way it seems to thrum and grow even harder within you, his masculine effort..."I'm gonna - "

"You can cum in me," you blurt out. "I'm safe!"

Devil:

Anastasia! Yes DO IT.

Whatever reservations he may have about giving you his load - an extremely intimate thing, shared essentially between two complete strangers - disappears when you squeeze his balls gently, when you clench your vaginal muscles around his girth stretching you with pleasant ache. Your own climax comes when you feel the first gush of his semen, warm and pulsing against the furthest parts of your sex as you take every inch, every drop inside of you.

When it finally passes and you're able to make sense of your surroundings, your body and his, you realize you're reclining back against him, your thighs spread wanton and wide. His stentorian, deep breathing pushes his chest against your slender back, and his fingers are still pressed against your throbbing pearl...slick with your cum and his. It slowly drips down his shaft, over his testicles, and as you dismount on shaky legs you feel the heat of a single rope trailing down your dark inner thigh.

He isn't far behind, rising and sliding his hands around you from behind, holding you close and nuzzling his nose softly into your hair. "Hope you don't mind...usually I like to snuggle after, just...you know." Right, no bed. "How do you feel about this?" he asks, and for the first time you hear just the slightest creak in the timbers that form his tower of confidence.

Devil:

Well? How do you feel Anastasia?

You: ...

amazing. That was...incredible.

You press back against him and smile with your eyes closed, still breathing heavily, sweat trickling down between your breasts as you button your blouse and take a box of tissues to clean yourself of his and your mess. "Like you just made me cum really hard...like I want to do this again, but..."

"But?" he asks, smiling against your cheek as you stroke his smooth face.

"Shhhh..." you hush once more, smiling at him in the reflection of a computer terminal. "Don't tell, okay? I'm trusting you on this, Tiberius."

"I don't kiss and tell - my personal life stays just that."

Personal. Okay, good. You don't have to worry about him spreading gossip about you two fucking in the server room unprotected; you knew about a girl named Marcy who was discovered banging the company's VP, and of course she got canned in disgrace while the VP...well, it pays to be the board chair's son.

"Are you...seeing anyone else?" he asks, buckling his belt - somehow the vision is incredibly arousing, and you find yourself eager for more, more *ever more*. The truth of the matter is, of course:

"Yes, I am, but...not officially. I don't know if I do official either, I hope that doesn't bother you." You lay out the first hint of that erotic dream, that you were a woman who didn't mind the idea of having two men in her life; your desire to fuck them both at the same time hasn't diminished either.

"It doesn't, I'm seeing someone else too...and I hope I see a lot more of you, Miss Anastasia." Your fingers are actually shaking from the rush of climax, clumsy with the buttons of your blouse, and to your surprise he reaches around and closes them with deft, kindly hands. When he reaches your bosom you run the tips of your fingers over the back of his palm, sinking your light weight back against his wiry physique.

"I'll look for your ID." You turn in his arms and press a kiss to his cheek, then to his lips; it's surprisingly warm, given how little you know of this man and his proclivities beyond...polyamory and computer science.