Perving On Sam

Sam dropped her bags onto the back seat, clambered into the passenger side, her t-shirt pulling up and offering me a glimpse of her tramp-stamp and a hint of ass crack.

'You're always perving on me,' she said, 'You do know I've got a boyfriend.'

She wasn't wrong. Sam was a secretary in the department across the hallway from my office. Her manager had put out an all users email six months back. Turns out that Sam needed a lift to work and was looking for someone who might offer.

I'd never spoken with Sam, but I knew who she was. We all knew who she was.

Sam bucked the trend. The secretarial pool was packed with late middle-aged Moms wearing cardigans, plaid skirts, and scowls. Sam was different, twenty years old - just - bleached blonde hair, red plumped lips, and a smile that suggested that she'd discovered some secret thing that she just could not wait to share.

Sam, tight pants, perfect ass, bending at the waist as she stacked paper into the copy machine. Immaculate tits, round, full, and pert nipples that pressed through her top and just begged to be toyed with. Voluptuous hips, curved thighs, and that tramp-stamp -- a statement, a signal, an arrow drawing the eye down and to the perfect round of her ass-cheeks.

I knew exactly who she was and so, when the email dropped, I hit reply without even thinking it.

I can help out, I said. I live over her way, I said. No trouble, it'd be a pleasure.

Except Sam had a boyfriend, Mark, she shared that on our first drive. She was still living at home, but he'd come over and stop the night through the week. She'd stay over at his place at the weekend.

Mark who wouldn't get a fucking job. Mark the stoner. Mark the waster. Mark of the incredible cock.

She shared that detail after a couple of weeks, grimacing as she slunk into the car. Dishevelled, hair mussed, she looked as if she'd overslept and then ran out of time to get ready. She sighed, her bra strap slipping down her arm and her low-cut top offering a glimpse of her tit where the skin, just above the nipple, had begun to bruise and blush purple. She caught me looking.

'I told him not to do that. But you know how he is. He likes giving me hickeys. Just so everyone knows I'm his.'

She straightened up and winced.

'You okay,' I asked.

She laughed, bashful. 'Just a little sore.' She adjusted, shifting her weight from once perfectly craft ass-cheek to the other. 'He's quite big. Sometimes he can be hard to take.'

She turned down to her phone and tapped at the screen leaving me to wonder, how big is big? I straightened myself, cock hard as steel, knowing that whatever he might be packing, it'd most certainly dwarf my unimpressive five inches. And without understanding why, I could feel myself ache.

Next week it was the same. Only now she was relaxing into this, easy, less reticent.

'He loves fucking me in the morning. The idea of sending me to work filled with his cum turns him on. He's a kinky bastard.'

She laughed and I laughed. But really, the thought of it was maddening, my cock throbbing, and I just wanted to get to work so that I could head straight into the bathroom and stroke myself raw.

The next week, she reeked of sex. I swear it. She even made mention.

'Sorry,' she said, 'He woke up late and I didn't get chance to clean up after.'

Sweat, tang, and bleach, the smell of their fuck filling the car.

The following week, she had a smear of cum below the corner of her mouth. I fucking kid you not. She left it there until we pulled into the carpark, casually dabbed at it before sucking her finger clean.

And that's how it went, week after week. Sam reeking of fucking. Sam dishevelled with fucking. Sam glazed and flushed with fucking. And all the while, my need growing, my desire growing, all of it centred on a specific idea of freshly fucked Sam.

And, right now, she was looking at me, straight on.

'I'm not going to fuck you, you know.'

'I know,' I said.

'Well then,' she said. But she said it with a smirk. 'What do you want? Me to suck you off or something. You know, for the lift.'

I double-blinked.

'What, no,' I said, 'It's not like that.'

'Well, what then?' she said, crossing one fleshy thigh against the other, her finger against her neck, down across her chest resting at the point at which her t-shirt swooped down into her cleavage.

And I thought to say nothing, drive to work, get on with the day, expecting it'd be forgotten before the drive home.

'Let me go down on you,' I said, my eyes widening, appalled and wondering how this fleeting thought had transmogrified into language, and how those same words had escaped my mouth.

She looked up from her phone, regarded me for a moment.

'Let me think about it,' she said.

Next morning she skipped down to the car and climbed in. Her skirt rode up beyond the place where her stockings had laddered and torn. Her cheeks were blushed, her lipstick smeared - just a little - and she stank of sex.

'Okay,' she said, 'Let's do it.'

'Really?' I said.

'Yeah, gotta be quick though. Don't wanna be late.'

I dropped the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.

'I know somewhere quiet,' she said, directing me into side streets, narrow roads, alley ways, and then onto an industrial estate, all smokestacks, warehouses, boarded up storefronts, and dilapidated mills.

'Down here,' she said, as I turned onto a stretch of wasteland. 'Over there, behind that wall.'

The car rocked and juddered as I steered it across cracked and crumbling concrete.

'Mark sometimes brings me here. It's safe. Right there,' she said, and I pulled the car to a stop. We were hidden between the redbrick of an abandoned warehouse and a crumbling wall.

She opened the car door.

'Come on,' she said, 'Oh, and you can wank off, but I'm not fucking you. And I'm not sucking you off.'

We stepped out of the car. She climbed into the backseat and lay down. I opened the door and she pulled up her skirt revealing the top of her stockings. I was hard and throbbing. I clutched at my cock through my pants.

'Like what you see?' she said, with a grin.

She pulled her skirt up further, revealing the tight v-between her thighs. She was wearing a white thong, pulled close enough to trace the shape of her cunt lips, the material melded against her flesh so that I could see that she was shaved smooth and bare. She opened her legs and pressed a long finger against her fuck-cleft, traced a circle around her clit, then lower. She pulled away and I could see that the material was sodden.

I leaned into the car, my hands against her knees and then her thighs. The smell of her rich, pungent, familiar.

'Surprise,' she laughed, 'I told you Mark was a horny fucker in the mornings. He gave me a right seeing to and filled me with a big fat load.'

And I could smell, the odour of him and the scent of her, and the thought of it both thrilled and appalled me. I thought to pull away, but her hands were against my head and then my neck, her thighs up and then resting against my shoulders.

'Don't worry,' she said, 'It doesn't make you queer. And besides, I taste delicious.'

My cock throbbed and I realised, whatever else, I needed this.

She pulled me in closer, her legs wrapping against my back, holding in me in place. She tugged at my hair, pulling my lips in against her gusset.

'Fuck, that's it,' she said, as I kissed at her cunt lips through her panties. 'More,' and I lapped at the material tasting her tang and the suggestion of something else beneath. She pulled me in tighter, reached between us, and then tugged her panties to one side revealing her gash.

She was a mess. A fuck mess. Still half-gaping, the smoothness of her cunt slicked with her juice and his. White cream smeared and glooped within her folds, a blob oozed and dribbled down across her taint and into her darker hole.

'Get to it then,' she said, her hands nestled into the crook of my neck, she pulled my mouth against her cunt.

'Gawd,' she said, and I ran the thick of my tongue the full length of her folds, from the peaty warmth of her asshole to her clit, my tongue savouring her sour-sweetness, and, underneath, something metallic, salty and turning bitter.

She moaned as I pressed the flat of my tongue against her clit, just holding it, circling, flicking and then softly sucking.

'Ugh, ugh, ugh,' she said, her hips softly undulating. She trembled, just a little, then 'Too much.'

Holding my head, she pressed me lower, positioning my mouth against her gape. She pushed her hips against my face with a deeper groan and I could feel her opening up. I licked, lapped, delved, and then sucked.

'Like that,' she said, and I could feel her pushing, dribbling, oozing, and then my mouth was filling with his fuck-cream, salty, gloopy, nasty, but I was hard, needy, desperate, wanking at my cock through my trousers.

She loosened her grip, I looked up to her, opened my mouth, showed her my prize, and then swallowed.

'Dirty bastard,' she said, but she said it with a smile.

She took my head again, rocking her hips, her lips slick with my spit, her fuck-juice, and his cum. She thrust her cunt against my face, pressing against my nose, my lips, my chin, gathering pace, the slosh of her wetness against my mouth.

I pressed my tongue against her labia, she pressed forward, repositioned, and pressed again. My tongue slid inside her, she pushed harder and I slipped deeper, the taste of her earthy, sweet, salty, bitter, sour, all at once. Her fingers tugged at my hair, Sam face-fucking me, grunting with each thrust, her fingers tightening against my skull, pulling me deeper, her cunt lips slapping against my face.

'Fuck, like that, like that, like that,' she said.

She trembled, a low moan. She shook, with a series of yelps. She thrust up, her hips high and away from the back seat as my tongue dug deep into her moistness.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah,' she said, shook hard once last time, slumped and then released. I rubbed at my cock through my pants, once, twice, and, with a shuddering moan, I erupted, jizz bleeding through the thin material and wetting my hand.

Driving into work, the traffic thickening, we would be late.

'Mark's an amazing shag,' she said, 'But he doesn't always get me off.'

I used a tissue to wipe at my face, then at my crotch, worrying that my spunk might be visible even through the black of my pants. The car stank of her cum and I could still taste her against my lips. I turned into the carpark, not saying a thing.

'Anyway, at least now I won't be leaking cum and making a mess. Will I?' She said it with a laugh and clambered out of the car, skipping up to the entrance. I examined the wet stain across the crotch of my trousers. It was good I'd gone with black.

At the top of the stairs, before heading into the building, Sam bent to adjust her shoe. Her skirt stretched tight across her perfect ass, her t-shirt pulling up to reveal her tramp-stamp in all its sleezy glory. She caught me watching, 'cos, after all, that's how she wanted it, and she smiled, threw me a half-wave, and winked.