Brenda came into my office yesterday morning the way she did every morning. She sashayed her hips through the door as she brought me a cup of coffee in one hand and the day's mail in the other.
"Good morning, Boss." I liked it when she called me Boss. I thought it was cute.
"Good morning, Brenda."
She set the coffee down on my credenza, and put the mail down on my desk. With an elegant motion, she extended her leg behind her, and gently closed the door to my office. I noticed she was wearing a very classic pair of black pumps, with maybe a two-inch heel.
I rolled my leather chair away from my desk.
"I like the shoes you're wearing today," I told Brenda.
"Thank you," she said, coming around to my side of the desk. "My husband and I went shopping this weekend."
There was a filing cabinet behind my desk. Brenda opened the bottom drawer to the filing cabinet, and took out the red cushion (it was about the size of a throw pillow) that we kept there.
"You know, Brenda, you actually make me glad it's Monday morning."
She giggled. "Yeah, well, me too," she said with a sly smile. It amazed me how youthful she was!
"Are you sure you're actually over forty?" I asked her as she knelt down on the pillow.
She smiled. "Yep. But that's the thing you've really got to keep secret," she said and winked up at me. Brenda was forty-four, but absolutely did not look it.
Today she was wearing dark hose and a black pencil skirt made from some cotton-like material. The skirt stopped conservatively above her knees; knees which now rested on the red cushion. Brenda was wearing a matching black top, rather tightly fitted, with sleeves ending just past her elbows. She was the first black secretary I had ever had, and her skin was a rich, delicious brown. Her top made a small "v" down her décolletage, but stopped well short of revealing the faintest hint of cleavage.
Richmond was still a conservative city, and the longer I worked with Brenda (the polite way of saying, the longer Brenda worked for me as my secretary), the more I was discovering how conservative and traditional Brenda herself was. Married, grown children, steady job, good work habits, always tastefully attired.
Her hair was very short (only a little longer than mine, really) and processed straight so it looked like a white woman's hair, but very short and fashionable. I reached down and touched her hair, tenderly. "I've been waiting for this since Friday night," I said.
She looked up at me with her large eyes the color of deep chocolate. "T.G.I.M.," she said. "Thank God it's Monday."
Then, like every morning, she began to undo my belt, unzip my fly, open my trousers and reach into my underwear. Today it was gray boxer briefs. I began to stiffen in anticipation, while her hand felt around for its prize, and when she made contact I hardened at an even faster rate.
Our eyes locked together, and without a further expression, Brenda slipped my cock between her lips. She closed her eyes as she began to feel me with her mouth.
Like all black women, Brenda had full, sensual lips. The sensation was no different than when white girls had given me blow jobs, but the sight of her dusky, plump lips encircling my manhood—often when I would masturbate I would think of just the way her mouth looked, her fat lips sucking my cock.
"That's very good, Brenda," I said in a hushed tone. Always had to be quiet around the office, lest a co-worker overhear.
Brenda did not respond, just kept up her slow, steady pace. She knew what I liked. She knew how to give it to me.
"Lick my balls, baby," I instructed her. True, the sensation does not do much for me, but the idea of it thrills. The visceral quality of a tongue on an unshaven scrotum, and even better: the sight of my white prick against Brenda's mahogany cheek.
While she licked me, she rubbed my hard cock against her face. Then, she buried her nose in my pubic hair, audibly inhaling my scent. My hands perched on her shoulders, feeling her lithe, black body through the fabric of her top.
She returned my cock to the warmth of her mouth. Brenda had a gift; she could suck my cock comfortably without using any hands, just her lips on my prick, her tight suction and teasing tongue building and building my desire until it would reach a fever pitch. Of course, sometimes she used her hands. Sometimes she played with my balls, or stroked my leg, or, even once, slid a long, dark finger up my anus until I exploded with abandon.
I moved her top aside enough so I could see what type of bra she was wearing. It was black, and I did not recognize it.
"Is the bra new?" I asked.
"Mmm-hmmm," she moaned, mid-suck.
"It looks nice."
"Thank you," she said, but it came out garbled—she did not take her mouth off of my cock.
"Another part of the shopping spree this past weekend?"
She just nodded. Then, as a change of pace, Brenda took her mouth off of my cock, took hold of it in one hand, and preceded to begin a series of long licks, stem to tip and back down again.
