My name is Rebecca, and I am 62-years-old, and this is the absolutely true story of how I came to be laying naked beside one of my equally naked colleagues on the desk of my manager as he and his boss are about to dump a load of spunk from their stiff-as-boards cocks onto our pussies and tits.
It boggles my mind that I, president of our local PTA, a church-going grandmother who was brought up in a strict, repressed household, whose sex life, until now, was nothing more than a fleet missionary coupling, could find herself craving the feel of hot cum on my cunt and breasts from a man who is not my husband of 37 years. Or the look of ecstasy on my female colleague when she scoops up the cum of our supervisor and massages it into her hairy gash where I will soon lap it up with the hunger of someone who hasn't eaten for weeks.
Had you told me a month ago that I would let my boss strip me naked, watch me masturbate and allow him to wank his cock as I did, I'd have called you crazy. Crazier still that I would recruit a colleague into this sexual game and, at first reluctantly then eagerly, ravish her pussy with my tongue and fingers. And craziest of all, that after cleaning her up I'd allow her to do the same to me and then permit our bosses to bend us over the desk, have us spread our ass cheeks and invite them to butt fuck us.
My descent into delectable degradation began six weeks ago. My boss Sam - never Samuel - and I met regularly twice a week to review projects that had been assigned to our department by his boss, David.
Sam is 15 years my junior. He's smart and ambitious and highly organized. Thus, our twice a week meeting.
While Sam lost his hair some time ago, he's one of those few Caucasian men who don't look silly bald. Besides, what he lacks in hair on top he more than makes up for with a thick salt-and-pepper beard that hangs from his chin five inches or so. Though he is moderately handsome, I'd never once thought of him in a sexual way and couldn't imagine him thinking of me as anything other than a highly competent product manager.
David, Sam's boss, is, believe it or not, 78, with a luxuriant shock of gray hair, a hawk nose and thin lips continuously pursed in a frown.
Anyway, during that fateful meeting with Sam six weeks ago, we'd completed our business and I stood to leave.
"Rebecca," Sam said. "Stay a minute."
I returned to my seat and opened my notebook, thinking he had more to say about our newest assignment from David.
"Put the notebook down and come over here," Sam said in a tone he'd never before used with me.
He pointed to the side of his desk and although confused, I did as he asked. Sam didn't speak but looked at me for a very long time. Finally, he said, "Lift your dress and show me your panties."
"What?" I asked, not certain I'd heard him correctly.
"Lift your dress and show me your panties. I want to see what color they are."
Shocked and offended beyond belief, I said, "I am not going to show you my panties. What I am going to do is go to HR right now and report you."
"No, you won't," he said. "When I asked you to show me your panties, I saw something flit behind your eyes. You want to show them to me. You just don't know it yet."
I stood, ramrod straight, unable to move. Had there really been something he'd seen in my eyes? It was true, I'd felt something, but it was anger. Wasn't it?
"Pull up that dress and show me your panties," Sam said again, more forcefully this time. "Now."
I willed my feet to move but they felt as if they weighed 1,000 pounds apiece. I grew up in an austere family. My father was a harsh disciplinarian who would take the belt to us if we touched the walls of our home. We never spoke about sex. No one ever gave me or my brother the "talk." We attended church every Sunday, prayed before every meal and were forced to write letters to Jesus at Christmas. When I had my first period, and accidentally bled on the bed, my parents told me how filthy I was, and my strait-laced mother, hammered home that sex was dirty and was only for procreation.
"Your duty is to satisfy your husband and have his children, nothing more," my mother preached. "You're not supposed to enjoy sex. It's dirty and if you like it, you're nothing but a whore."
I carried that belief into my marriage to my husband, Dan, and discovered that while sex wasn't exactly dirty, it wasn't exactly exciting, either. At least with Dan. He was, and is, and uninspired partner. He would climb on me without preamble, hump away for 30 seconds or so with his insignificant cock, ejaculate, and climb off. He'd be asleep minutes later. It was wham, bam, thank you ma'am, without the thank you.
So, the idea of lifting my skirt and showing my panties to another man, my boss no less, was anathema to me.
Yet, I couldn't move, couldn't make good on my protest and threat to report him to HR.
"Rebecca," Sam said. "Your panties."
When he said the word panties this time, I absolutely felt something. A ripple in my pussy.
My breathing was ragged, and I felt hot. My hands were at my side, and without conscious thought, my fingers curled and bunched a wad of my dress.
"Good girl," Sam said, and my pussy clenched once again.
Higher and higher the hem of my dress rose. My legs began to wobble, and I felt something between my thighs I'd never experienced before. A wetness. I peeked over my shoulder. The door was shut, but not locked. Anybody could walk in and see me exposing myself inches from my boss's face.
"Keep going," Sam said.
After what seemed like hours but was only seconds, my panties came into view. My face reddened with embarrassment, not so much that I was showing Sam my underwear than that they were plain and white and boring.
"Well now," said Sam. "There's a wet spot here." He inhaled deeply. "I can smell you."
I was breathing so hard by then I thought I'd faint.
"Okay, that's all," Sam said. "You can lower your dress."
As I dropped the hem, a wave of disappointment washed over me. Meanwhile, my heart was attempting to jailbreak my heaving chest.
I gathered up my belongings and was about to leave the office when Sam said, "Tomorrow, no panties. Understand? And lose the bra, too."
Tomorrow? No underwear at all? I wanted to tell him to go to hell, that he was a pervert, that I was going to indeed report him to HR and get him fired. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. All I could do was nod and hurry back to my own office.
That night I couldn't sleep. My mind raced with the memory of me standing in front of Sam, my dressed about my waist and him staring at my panty-clad pussy and the wet spot that smelled... of me!
The next morning, I showered and began to dress as I normally did. Then, as if he were standing right beside me, I heard Sam's words.
"Tomorrow, no panties. Understand? And lose the bra, too."
Pacing back and forth in the bedroom, I debated with myself over what to do. Underwear? No underwear? HR? No HR?
Dan called up from the kitchen that he was leaving for work and that I'd be late to the office if I didn't hurry. I made my decision and left.
I wasn't in my office 10 minutes when Sam called my extension and said he wanted to meet. Once again, my legs felt too heavy, but I was able to move them, albeit slowly. What should have been a 30-second trek to Sam's office took nearly five minutes. Arriving finally, I took a deep breath and opened the door.
"Thought you might not come," he said. "Thought you might be on your way to HR. But you're here so, come in. Oh, and close the door."
"Lock it?" I asked in a voice that sounded nothing like me.
