It was late and now I was pissed off, very pissed off.
This bloody hopeless public servant needs to get a real job. The email came through at the last minute, totally moving the goal posts and now we'd need to rewrite the whole report, all 137 pages. The Report was due at the Department of Infrastructure in 48 hours. I'll need to burn the candle at both ends to get this completed in time. Thanks to Bill Minchin, the 'shit for brains' department head.
We run a small sized firm that consults to local and state government on large infrastructure deals. We mainly deal with public consultation, which means "spinning the project" so the community feels that they are involved. I'd been at this game for more than 20 years so I shouldn't have been so surprised by the sheer, selfish incompetence of this public servant. No big deal, it'd happened before and the money was good.
When I received the 'Sorry we forgot to mention' email, I stood at my desk and barked out, "Why don't you get a fucking real job, you stupid, dumb, pen pushing wanker."
It was late and I thought that I had the office to myself. Well I was wrong, Zanire, the cleaner, had just turned up for work and she obviously heard my outburst. She rushed to my office door, looking rather concerned.
"Mr. Johnstone, is something bad happening? Mr. Johnstone why is it you yell?"
Zanire was a refugee, a recent arrival to Australia and one of my wife's projects. Teresa, spends a fair bit of time 'doing her little bit for the community.' Usually her involvement is limited to fund raising, lunches, auctions, dinners, and other assorted charity events. Recently, she seemed to be taking more of an active role with her newest venture, RefuCare. According to Teresa, RefuCare is a wonderful group of people that help Refugee's get a start in Australia. So my involvement? Give Zanire a job.
Teresa begged and pleaded that I find employment for Zanire, so she is now our office cleaner working three evenings a week. Our firm only employs 6 staff including me, so this amount of cleaning was a fair bit of overkill. Teresa was happy, Zanire had a job, the office was clean, and I suppose everybody was a winner.
As far as I knew, Zanire was a good cleaner, she didn't rifle through your desk. She was competent, honest and efficient. I was really only concerned for the security of the petty cash and that someone, anyone but me, empty the dishwasher. On the odd occasion I'd heard Zanire clunking around the office, I was polite with the usual pleasantries, aside from that I'd had very little interaction with her.
Zanire, who is supporting her parents and two younger brothers, is a sponsored refugee from somewhere near the Congo. It could be Zaire, Botswana or Mozambique for all I knew. I'd never bothered to chat with Zanire much.
Zanire looks a bit like a taller, chunkier version of Serena Williams. Her age could be anywhere from 20 to 35 and she is black, very black with huge pink lips that hide brilliant white teeth. You could say that Zanire is large, but she certainly isn't fat, more a strong, generous shape. She has long cornrow braids that are secured with a mix of silver and red beads. Aside from her large lips, the most noticeable feature about Zanire is not anything physical; it would have to be the array of chunky, silver bracelets that constantly jangle as she works. When Zanire is cleaning, I shut my door.
So I apologised for my tirade of expletives that she'd witnessed. "Zanire, I'm sorry for the outburst, just a bad email."
"It's ok Mr. Johnstone, email can't hurt much, I go back to work, you ok, nothing wrong." Zanire responded with her amusing sing-song voice.
"No Zanire, nothing is wrong. It just annoys me that some of our public servants are totally incompetent and I can't believe that the Aussie tax payer is lumbered with the wages for these inept, bureaucratic morons. It now transpires that from his original commission he'd forgot to mention one small fact that now changes the entire emphasis of this report."
I had no idea why I'd given Zanire such an explanation, it would have been more my style just to keep my head down and grunt something inane.
"Mr. Johnstone, sounds like you talk about Zanire's old boss in Khartoum. He was one lazy public servant man. Always at his desk, doing nothing, bossing everyone. At night he often yell, 'Zanire get in here, blow job now.'"
Gulping, I sort of stammered. "No Zanire, I didn't ask for a blow job, I was just yelling at the sender of this email that he should get a fucking real Job. I apologise if my outburst shocked you." How did our wires get so crossed?
"Its ok, Mr. Johnstone, Zanire not shocked at all, I go back to work, but if you want blow job, just yell for Zanire. Zanire's old boss needed blow job as he was always stressed. He says blow job good for stress, and no good from wife." Zanire laughed to herself as she turned to leave.
Fucking hell, I've got to relocate to Khartoum!
I watched Zanire with a bit more interest as she left my office. She was actually quite pretty, in an exotic, African sort of way. She wore no make-up at all, her lips were thick, pink and luscious. Her charcoal eyes were large and doe-like, with a permanent sparkle. Her muscular body wasn't an hourglass shape, it was big at the top, with broad shoulders, round in the bum with strong, solid legs. She sort of sashayed a bit when she walked, with her chest forward, shoulders back, arse out, and lazy hips.
I couldn't really determine if her tits were large and firm or soft and saggy. She favoured floppy sweaters that came down over her bum, framed by a loose belt around her waist. She wore leather sandals that showed off her surprisingly delicate toes with bright polish.
I suppose if you bought her some decent clothes; shoes with a bit of heel and a perhaps a touch of makeup she would look quite striking. I guess the RefuCare budget doesn't stretch that far.
Sometime later, Zanire opened my door and asked, "Mr. Johnstone, I go now, you want anything before I leave, coffee, beer?"
Actually, I wouldn't mind a stress-relieving blow job just like your old Boss in Khartoum. "No thanks Zanire, I'm good. See you soon." I wimped out.
Over the next day, visions of Zanire flooded my thoughts. What were her tits like? How good would it be to get my dick between those full lips? What would it be like having those bracelets clank and jingle as her hand moved up and down, stroking my dick? I didn't consider any consequences, just the fantasy of an office encounter with a willing Zanire.
-*-
Two nights later, I was just finishing the rewrite of the report for the Department of Infrastructure, when I heard the jangle of Zanire's' bracelets as she entered the office and collected the cleaning equipment. Buckets, mops, vacuums all clanked and whirred as she worked through the building. Actually I was hoping that she would come and say hello, I'd been a bit intoxicated by her attitude of boss/employee blow jobs. I'd had some pretty vivid fantasies about those lips around my dick.
Zanire clanked and jangled into my office and said, "Mr. Johnstone, is it ok if Zanire vacuums your office? All this working late, you not give Zanire a chance to clean here."
I looked up from my work and recognised the same Zanire style, big hoop earrings, braided hair, full lips, black leggings and that dreaded floppy sweater. After all my Zanire fantasies, her 'exoticness' had transformed into 'erotic-ness.' She had become much more than just a cleaner, or one of my wife's projects. She was this exciting wonderland that had gotten under my skin.
"Give me 30 minutes Zanire and I'll have this report finished then you can do whatever you like in here."
Thirty minutes later, probably to the second, Zanire returned. "You ready for Zanire now, Mr. Johnstone?" Shit, why did I have to read so much into that? Yes, I was definitely ready for Zanire. I'd been ready for two days.
I tidied up the papers on my desk as Zanire vacuumed. She bent over the vacuum, pushing it backwards and forwards. I listened as her bracelets jangled, I watched as her braids bounced from side to side and I noticed that her tits were in fact, quite big. As she pushed forward the sweater stretched across her chest. There was an outline of breasts, not a pair of breasts, rather they were clumped together.
I continued to fluff about at my desk, enjoying the sight. Zanire switched off the machine and started on the dusting. As she stretched, I could definitely see that her arse was chunky, shit it looked good. Kind of big and round, what the Americans would probably call, booty. The leggings were stretched tight across her backside. No panty line, does that mean she didn't wear any panties, or that she was wearing a G-string? She doesn't strike me a G-string girl, they're usually skinny and blond. There weren't any lines from a bra across her back either. Perhaps she was commando after all? It was amazing, the total rambling crap that was bouncing around my head.
Zanire turned as I was pondering her underwear status. "Mr. Johnstone, you look fazed, you work much too hard. Let Zanire rub your shoulders."
"No, its ok Zanire, I'm fine, it's all good now this report is complete, it just needs collating." You idiot! What an opportunity, just shut up and let her rub.
"Mr. Johnstone, come on, let Zanire look after hard working boss, we pretend we back in Khartoum." Thank Christ, all was not lost! Shit, I could feel the beginnings of an erection already.
Zanire actually swiveled my chair around so I was facing away from her and with gentle but strong fingers, she started to massage my neck and shoulders. The jangle of her bracelets was music to my ears. Her massage was firm and then soft, firm and then soft, her bracelets clinking with each squeeze.
She bent forward and breathed in my ear. "You like Zanire's massage?" Those big, gorgeous, pink lips were millimeters from my ear, her warm breath was like some sort of exotic medicine.
"Yes Zanire, it's wonderful," I sort of croaked, as the blood continued to rush south, away from my brain.
Zanire kept rubbing and squeezing my shoulder blades and neck, pressing delightfully into the muscles around my collarbone.
"Mr. Johnstone, we take off tie now?" She lilted in my ear. Not waiting for a response, Zanire removed my tie and loosened a couple of the buttons on my shirt.
She slid her warm hands under my collar and continued her magic massage. She started to work down my chest and then back up to my shoulders. Each touch, each change in direction, was amazingly sensual, nothing like any massage I'd ever received.
Her hands slid down my chest and then back to my shoulders. As her hands went lower, I could feel her very heavy breasts press against the back of my head. Wow, they were unbelievably spongy, yet firm as they nestled into my head and neck.
