In the silence, the dead silence, another look crossed Petra's face. Just in an instant, and just for a split-micro-second, she looked like a little girl. It wasn't just that she looked younger in that instant. It was that she looked troubled. Vulnerable even. A look of uncertainty came across her well-made-up face, a face that normally looked super-confident. Happy even. Content. This was one of those solitary moments. Just in the blink of an eye, some of the color drained away from her cheeks. This in turn made the contrast of her deep red lips an even more striking one. The thing was that, even after that split-second had passed by, her face didn't return to normal. There was a deep thoughtfulness, as well as a retention of some of the 'trouble.' She took a big, heaving sigh, during which her not-inconsiderable chest expanded, then deflated inside her jacket. Getting off the deep leather executive swivel chair, she took off the jacket, hung it over the back of the chair. Brushed down her blouse. Her breasts rippled and rolled under the blouse. Delicious breasts. Full, heavy, fleshy. Picking up her bag, she left the office and headed down a corridor to the ultramodern rest rooms, high-heels clicking with purpose.
Ultramodern super-duper glass palaces were springing up all round the City, buildings that cost almost as much during the design stage as they did in their construction. And then there were the executive rest rooms in Petra's building. 'Petra's building,' in the loosest sense, of course. It belonged to the company she worked for, although she could pass for its owner any day. She practically ran the finance division herself and just ensured that her boss was kept informed on a daily basis, and even on weekends when necessary.
The restrooms were spacious, and where the rest of the building was very clean, straight lines, cut glass and mirror-like aluminium, the restrooms deliberately returned to an air of homely opulence. Tall rooms that echoed the sounds of numerous pairs of stilettos attached to power-dressed women during the day. But at night were eerily quiet, and yet even the slightest sound would bounce and ricochet off the marble floors and around the mirrored wall even up along the intricately designed ceilings. There were curves in these restrooms. Still clean lines. Lines that flowed from the huge hand basins and seemed to blend in with the wall-size mirrors behind them, making the seams all but invisible. Even the mirrored walls were etched with intricate, swirly designs that separated the row of hand basins into their own individual compartments. They created that 'homey' feel. Whereas the office suites and visitor areas were unmistakably corporate in their design and identity.
Along the opposite wall to the wash basins down its whole length were the cubicles. Wider than usual cubicles, and each furnished with its own padded chair, clothes hangers, as well as the toilet itself, more room equalling to more luxury. Each cubicle individually air-conditioned. Each cubicle walled floor-to-ceiling. In effect, each cubicle, a room of its own.
At this time of the day the raspy heavy breathing of Petra could be clearly heard coming from one of the cubicles. The door wasn't closed completely and so the sound poured out and into the main section of the restroom. It was a raspy, throaty sound that was broken every so often with another sound, just the barest hint of a whimper. It could have been mistaken for a sob. But it wasn't a sob. The raspiness of the breathing, the slight gurgle in the throat, and then the whimper were too regular, too distinct, too controlled for it to be sounds of any form of distress.
Petra was sitting on the toilet seat. That is, sitting in the draped sense of the word. She was draped in an obscene fashion. Yes, that is an appropriate description -- obscene. The hinged seat-cover itself was down, and bared Petra's complete weight. She wasn't relieving herself in the toilet sense; she was leaning back against the wall. Her skirt had been hiked up and was being held high by the roll of her hips. She had raised her knees high, pulled them back and opened them wide. Knowing she had sublimely long, shapely legs was one thing; seeing them in the flesh, as it were, brought the fact home like a freight train. The silky, sheer nylon that sheathed them seemed to sparkle and shimmy in the even lighting. The delicate lace tops of the self-supporting stockings clung to her very upper-thighs, denting the pale flesh slightly. She hated garter belts. They always spoilt the lines of skirts and that just was not acceptable. Her legs were so wide apart that she had wedged each of her knees and lower-legs high on the side walls of the cubicle as an aid to keep them spread. She wasn't quite on her back. Just at a forty-five degree angle and being held up by the back wall behind the toilet itself. Her stiletto'd feet dangled, both foot-arches held perfectly, tippy-toes pointing down towards the floor. It was as though she were trying her very best to be appealing to the eye of an invisible voyeur.
There was a distant look in her eyes. Not dissimilar to one of abandon as she stroked down between her legs. Her tiny silk thong had been pulled to one side leaving her fleshy, meaty labia exposed. She was masturbating crudely. Dragging her long manicured fingernails up the length of her slit, bottom to top. Just parting the labia and dipping in a little. Her fingernails were painted and glossed the same color as her lips, as always. This deep red contrasted quite starkly with the slight reddening of the labia. The fingernails trawling through the increasing collection of juices which then over-spilled the scoop of the nail and back into the valley of vaginal flesh. The tiny crotch of the thong, red silk to match the blouse, was clearly saturated and stained with her produce.
It was clear to see that she was producing copious amounts of juice. As she stroked herself, up then down, the trickles of juices were plain to see. Running down the slit and collecting in a slippery pool between her bottom cheeks on the toilet cover. She expertly stroked with one finger and with another finger of the same hand she rubbed and pressed the hood of her clitoris, which was just nestled out of sight, at first. The more she rubbed her clitoris, the more into view it came. Like a little hard nub, a button that was coated, almost dripping with glistening juices. She teased the clitoris out and circled its periphery, as she stroked longer and deeper with her other finger. Any onlooker would conclude that Petra was capable of acrobatics with those long, slender fingers. Every so often, the little whimper, the little mewling sound, came to the fore, just as she held her breath. Like she was deliberately holding her breath to magnify the tiny spasms of pleasure she was giving herself.
Petra's other hand was wrapped under one cheek of her fleshy bottom. She had used this hand to pull one cheek apart from the other, exposing the rosebud of her rear hole. With the forefinger of that hand, she was rimming the very edge of her bum hole. Round and round. Round and round. Very gently, very delicately. Just rimming her bum hole. Tickling it with her deep-red nail. In doing this, she was enhancing the little spasms to her vaginal area. Or more to the point, enhancing the little bursts of pleasure to her clitoral area.
Quite obviously, this kind of activity was one that Petra indulged in on a regular basis. She was very experienced at it. Her positioning, and the practiced way she used the finger of both hands in unison, was almost an art form. Her red, pure silk blouse was dishevelled and partly open. Three or four buttons were undone and hanging out of one side and one of her thirty-eight Ds was hanging out in its entirety. The other was still covered in silk. Teasingly so. But what Petra was doing as she masturbated was that, every so often, she would bring the hand up from her bottom and use the same finger that had been rimming her bum hole to circle and rub across the tip of her exposed nipple. The nipple was stiff. Thick. Rubbery. Hard. And it was this action that was causing her to whimper. It was that very action, as she brought her hand up, and fingered the nipple, that made that sob-like sound emit from between her deep-red lips. Not a sob at all, but a cry of lust. Pure lust.
"mmmmm mmmmmm mmmmm mmmmmm mmmmmmm nnnnnnggggggg"
For that invisible voyeur who might have been lucky enough to witness such a sight, there would have been a conflict of interest. Does he, or she, watch what is going on between Petra's fabulously long, disgustingly spread legs, or, does he or she watch, and study, the look of increasing abandon that is playing around her face? It's true to say that, at times, people are not as attractive as at other times. For instance, when people get angry, or 'lose it' for whatever reason, they lose their attractiveness. If ever there was a time when such an attractive, amazonian beauty as Petra should lose her attractiveness, it was here and now. But this wasn't the case. The vision was quite obscene. Disgustingly so. And yet, she lost none of her beauty. It could be said that she radiated it even more. Her already full, sensuous lips had slightly swollen and become even more pouted with the lust she was feeding herself. Every so often the tip of her wet tongue would slide out into one corner or the other of her delicious mouth. The sparkle in her eyes was intensified. Her huge eyes, wider, almost maddeningly staring into the space directly in front of her. The space occupied by that nonexistent voyeur. It was almost embarrassing for a voyeur to be intruding on the very intimate, private time of an impossibly stunning, mature woman in the throws of pleasuring herself.
