Lila And Mr Wiley

The first thing I noticed was she kept touching her mouth, her lips, with her long fingers, nails painted a glossy crimson. Absently, she would massage the outside of her lips and then lick them, of course, first every five or ten seconds or so, but then profusely, rubbing her tongue over and around them to keep them continuously moist. Soon she wasn’t simply touching her lips, but she was slipping fingers inside of her mouth, far inside, past the second knuckle. Then she would seem to catch herself doing it, catch herself licking her fingers, and then she would suddenly bring her hand up to adjust her black-rimmed glasses or quickly thrust her hand back into her lap again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wiley,” Lila said, “I think I’m having a hard time following this.”

I had called Lila, my assistant, in to watch some of the new marketing materials the boys upstairs had prepared; they told me the subliminals were hot. Always capable and efficient, Lila came in immediately. She was dressed as she generally is in the autumn months, in a knee-length woolen skirt, a white blouse, and a tight, form-fitting cashmere sweater that emphasized the swell of her breasts, which were somewhat large, ripened. She was unerring in her ability to maintain my correspondence, and I found her husky alto voice soothing when she would prompt me during our dictation sessions. She had a habit of adjusting her glasses whenever she noticed me looking at her, and I found this quite endearing. Though I have always considered her with the utmost professionalism, I also wondered how her cunt must look under those woolen skirts of hers, and what kind of sounds she would make if I was deep inside her.

Now she sat on the small sofa in my office watching the marketing video, and she was having a hard time keeping her hands under control. Ostensibly, the video merely showed short-haired women, one blond and one brunette, sitting in Barcelona chairs in front of a coffee table, discussing the relative prices of precious metals and hard currencies. But who knows what was edited into that rather static tableau by the boys upstairs in quick cuts undetectable by the naked eye. I assumed it was these same two women, who were likely professionals, talent brought in from the Valley, performing some lewd acts on each other, flashes of one woman devouring the other’s pussy, or shoving an enormous black dildo in between the others legs, or simply masturbating each other with furious fingers as their stockinged legs were propped up on that coffee table. I wasn’t sure, though. Perhaps I should ask some of the boys upstairs.

Lila was sucking on her thumb, making some sumptuously loud slurping noises, and then she stopped herself, blushing a bit, or was she merely flushed from excitement? I asked her what she thought the program was about. I noticed her swallowing a lot, and when she tried to speak to me, she gasped a bit, breathless, having a hard time forming her words. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wiley, I don’t seem to understand,” Lila said. “They are talking, they are talking about hard metals.”

The women in the video continued to sit in their chairs and talk. The dark haired woman had brown skin and big breasts; they seemed to bulge underneath the jacket she wore, they seemed to be swelling right before my eyes. My cock was growing hard in my pants and I was thinking how much I needed to taste this woman, to bend her over that Barcelona chair and make her feel me deep inside her womb, and for a moment it seemed inevitable that I was going to have to undo my zipper and give it more room. But then I thought perhaps I should stop watching, because the subliminals might be affecting me as well. I forced my eyes away, but it was only with some difficulty. But I knew I should be observing Lila, whose eyes were indeed riveted to the screen, to these two women. When I called her name, she couldn’t even turn her head. She simply said lowly in her husky, breathless voice, “Yes, Mister Wiley. Yes?” She was still licking her lips profusely, and she was having considerable difficulty keeping her legs closed. They would loll open, as far as her skirt would permit, and then she would squeeze them closed again with a quick gasp. “I’m sorry Mr. Wiley. I can’t seem to concentrate. It’s just that I feel a little strange is all.” She adjusted her glasses quickly and her hand when suddenly to her chest, and she slid it down between her breasts and then up again, her eyes still glued to the screen, to those two short-haired women discussing the currency exchange. “It’s about money, right, Mr. Wiley?” Another gasp. Her hand went up and down between her wonderfully large breasts, creasing the cashmere between them as she slid her fingers through that groove.

I had never seen Lila quite so confused. Her eyes shone, her pupils seemed a bit dilated. I noticed that quite soon, she was having a hard time keeping herself seated on the couch. She kept rising off of it and thrusting her buttocks up in the air, leaning forward and arching her back slightly, throwing her head back a bit, her straight black hair hanging down around her shoulders. She would try to open her legs further but her skirt kept restraining her. Her hips would begin to sway, giving her ass a little wiggle, but then suddenly she would catch herself, and sit back down again. She couldn’t take her eyes of the screen. I asked her what she thought and Lila said, licking her lips, “I’m sorry Mr. Wiley, what did you say? I am feeling strangely overcome.” She rose up again and lifted her ass again, leaning out and arching her back, her breasts hanging below her. Her blouse had come untucked from her skirt. She started, seeming to suddenly realize what she was doing as her hips pumped and swayed, but she found that she couldn’t sit herself down. “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she confessed, gasping breaths in between words, and still licking her lips rather profusely. I could see them glisten in the florescent light. I wondered if she might not start drooling. She balanced herself by rocking back and forth. Her back was arched and her hands smoothed her skirt over her ass cheeks as they wiggled, she kept smoothing in a slowly undulating rhythm, and then she cupped her pendulous breasts and turned her hands over them. “They talked about hard . . .” she said, her voice trailing off as she began to pant a bit. She caught herself for a second and adjusted her glasses. “I’m sorry Mr. Wiley,” she said with no traces of embarrassment. “I just feel like I need to touch myself.”

I didn’t say anything; I just continued to watch her, her eyes glued to the monitor, and I must admit my cock had become very hard just watching my assistant, Lila, as she watched the subliminals. There was a smell in my office, familiar, yet strange for the context, a musky deep-forest smell, the smell of an animal lathering, the smell of wet cunt. There she was writhing a bit, running her hands all over herself, over her breasts and her ass, and up and down her nylon-encased legs. Lila fumbled with her skirt and finally it dropped to the floor, and she sighed loudly, happily as she parted her legs wider, resting her hands on her thighs, and lifting her ass up and down. “Yes, Mister Wiley. Yes,” she said. “I don’t know, but I feel like touching myself.” She was still panting, but her voice was becoming slightly more girlish, softer, higher-pitched. She began to coo, and talk more to herself when she wasn’t simply licking her lips. “I like touching, yes, I like touching,” she was saying, her hands finding their way inside her pantyhose and up inside her, making a viscous, shuffling, thrusting sound. She worked her hands furiously, rocking back and forth on her boots with three inch heels, those boots I admit I love when she wore to the office.

Surely Lila wouldn’t notice if I removed my cock from my pants at this point. I wasn’t so sure that I could contain my own enthusiasm at this point. “Please. I’m sorry, I like it, yeah, I like it, yummy,” Lila said, which was quite unlike her. She was usually more careful with her vocabulary. “Yummy, yummy,” she slurped, one hand working furiously inside her panties under the hose, and the other grabbing her left breast, pinching and grabbing. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mister Wiley,” she gurgled in her suddenly girlish voice, breaking into giggles. “Baby needs a fuck. Daddy want to fuck me?” She was on her knees now, holding herself up with one hand while other strummed on her clit, her eyes still glued to the screen, her ass thrust up in the air, and yes, a strand of drool hanging from her lips as she panted lasciviously. “Daddy, fuck, daddy, fuck,” she kept repeating, while I watched her hungrily and deliberated, pulling absently on my throbbing cock stuck straight out of my open zipper. I can’t wait to tell the boys upstairs, I thought. They’ll be delighted with this.

As she rocked back and forth on her own hand, I crept toward her, after first checking that my office door was indeed locked. I stole a glance at the screen Lila watched, and I, too became, quite transfixed all at once by those short-haired women in their Barcelona chairs. On the one hand, I knew with one part of my mind that they were simply sitting there discussing variable rate bonds for fixed-income investment, but I was more convinced that woman with the short blond hair was begging me to let her fellate me, while the black haired woman, smiling broadly, was working her over from behind with a huge strap-on. But then they were talking about floating points on government-backed mortgages and, in a flash, the black-haired woman was opening her long thigh-high clad legs, to show her cleanly shaven vulva to me, urging me to stick my rod inside her and fuck her silly, to fuck her until she barked like an animal, and she shamelessly pulled a finger out of her cunt and stuck between her lips and sucked off her own juices. Both women seemed so large, so all-encompassing, fuller and bigger than I’d ever seen. The blonde sat primly in the Barcelona chair, one breast exposed through her blouse, waiting for me to suckle. I almost quite forgot about Lila, moiling in her own juices right beside me. Just like that the blond and the brunette were kissing deeply, soulfully, and I hardly even realized my cock was in my hand, and I was working my shaft madly, like a engine piston firing out of control.

Then I heard Lila, moaning, cooing, still begging, “Daddy fuck baby, baby make wet, yummy, wanna suck it, mmmmm.” She had worked her pantyhose down so that they cuffed her knees, and she was stuffing her clenched hand into her pussy with abandon. On screen the blonde licked the brunette’s ear and neck and toyed with the blonde’s perky, erect nipples while the blonde sucked on her fingers, closing her eyes languorously and then opening them wide, as if she couldn’t believe the size of my cock, which I was desperate to impale her on. The black haired woman told me how to fuck her, slow, then hard, then filling her to the hilt and exploding inside her and the juices were positively running down her legs and sure enough, the blonde was lapping at them, uninhibitedly, rolling the stockings down while she licked and licked.

I was so transfixed, I hadn’t even noticed that Lila was now sucking me off, bobbing up and down on my throbbing cock agilely, taking me deeply and fully into her mouth while she clumsily fingered my balls. I longed for her finger in my ass. Lila moaned and hummed as she took me in and out, and I pulled her sweater and blouse off, quite roughly I guess, since she couldn’t find the buttons later. Lila’s eyes were wide and liquid as she glowered at me, my cock in her mouth, and then she pulled off me and said, “Fuck baby, fuck,” and with my cock in her hand, she guided in to her pussy as she turned around, so that she would be taken from behind. She ground her ass into my hips and glued her eyes back to the screen, where, for all I could see, the blonde was doing the same thing to the brunette, taking her from behind with the strap-on, her hips furiously pumping while the blond squeezed her own nipples and worked at her clit feverishly. Her mouth was open and she was grunting, rhythmically, oh, oh, oh, oh, or was that Lila, as I pumped into her recklessly, sliding in and out as quick and hard as I could manage.

Then before we knew it, the video had ended, and Lila and I were a bit chagrined to find ourselves so entwined as we were, what, with my cock inside of her, and our clothes in a pile beneath of us on the institutional-gray carpet in my office. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wiley,” Lila said, her voice adopting her natural husky alto tone once more, “But I’ll have to wash some of your come off of me.” I thought it best that we dress ourselves, and perhaps take an hour to collect ourselves before we reported back to the boys upstairs, though they certainly would be rather interested to hear what had transpired.