Mr. Mcenzie

I must have been 19. I still lived with my parents, but I had a boyfriend called David, who was 24 and had his own flat. David was a lovely boy, sweet and gentle and he loved me to bits. We were very happy together and, although we hadn't said anything openly, we both expected we would spend the rest of our lives together. He worked in a small engineering company, McKenzies, which his boss, Mr. McKenzie, owned. David was a graduate and it was his first job since leaving university; he felt quite insecure and was very keen to impress.

I hadn't met Mr. McKenzie, but by all accounts he was fearsome and grumpy. I had seen him; he was tall, and was probably good looking in his youth -- but that was well behind him now. He was probably in his mid 50s, with a bit of a paunch. But he was undoubtedly an alpha male, confident, brash and assertive. So it was a big surprise when David rang me one evening to say that during the day, Mr. McKenzie had, in effect, invited himself and his wife for dinner on Thursday evening at David's flat. David was in a bit of a panic, because he could barely boil an egg. He was delighted by the opportunity to spend time out of work with his boss, whom he idolised, but terrified at the prospect of failing to impress. I told him not to worry and agreed that I would come over that evening and cook dinner for them and act as hostess. I was thrilled at this chance to act like a proper couple at a dinner party.

The day came and I went over in the afternoon with some shopping. I let myself into the flat and started preparing the food. I had chosen a simple menu -- some pate, followed by a casserole and then a fruit salad. That way I could do most of the preparation in advance and not risk things going wrong at the last minute. I got the food ready and the casserole in the oven and then nipped into the bedroom to get changed. I had chosen a little black dress. It was short (but not too short), showing off my legs and had a sweetheart neckline which showed a little cleavage, but not enough to look trampy.

David arrived back excited and nervous, and asked anxiously if everything was going alright. "Everything's fine, the food's ready, the table's laid. I just need you to open some wine and get changed" I reassured him. He gave me a quick kiss; "You're a star," he said as he headed for the bedroom. I busied myself folding napkins and then the phone rang. David picked up and had a short conversation. He came out and said, "That was Mr. McKenzie. He said that his wife isn't well and can't come, so he's coming on his own." I was secretly a little relieved. I had been a little worried that his wife might be a bit of a harridan and would have spent the evening passing judgement on the flat (too small), the furniture (too shabby), the carpets (need replacing) and, of course, the food (what a ridiculous choice of menu).

We were both feeling a little more confident and in control by the time the doorbell rang. Mr. McKenzie came in, with a bunch of flowers for me and a lovely bottle of red wine for David. We sat and he and David chatted about work for 15 minutes and then I called them to the table and served the food. I sat next to Mr. McKenzie and he sat opposite David; but I might just as well not have been there. The pair of them talked about work and ignored me. I didn't mind. My mind wandered and I served the three courses one after the other. The pudding finished, we sat back and I made coffee. Mr. Mckenzie reached into his jacket pocket, "you don't mind if I smoke" he asked. Actually, he didn't really ask. He told us. "No, no, not at all" blustered David. I did mind. Nobody smoked in other people's homes anymore; it was just soooo rude.

As it happened, It seemed that Mr. McKenzie had run out of cigarettes and David, as eager to please as ever, offered to go out and buy him some from the local shop. His boss made a token attempt to refuse and asked directions, but David insisted, saying that the shop was a little difficult to find if you didn't know the way and, in a trice, he was gone.

We sat at the table, Mr. McKenzie and I, with cups of coffee, in a slightly awkward silence. And after what seemed like ten minutes, but was probably just two, he pushed his chair back and stood up, still saying nothing. He walked round behind me and I turned my head back, thinking he wanted to go to the loo and would need directions. But as I leant back towards him in my chair, he bent over me slightly from behind and his right hand slid over my right shoulder, onto the bare skin of my upper chest, where my collar bones and my ribs met and then, smoothly, unhesitatingly and steadily, slipped under my sweetheart neckline and into my bra, cupping my left boob. His forefinger and thumb caressed my nipple, rolling it gently between them.

My face turned back to the front and I stared straight ahead, stunned. My mouth fell slightly open and I said... nothing. I was paralysed. I had no idea what to do. I was so unprepared. He had shown me no interest, had paid me no attention. We hadn't flirted, he hadn't pressed his thigh up against mine during the meal -- although he had plenty of opportunity to, if had had wanted to. He cupped and squeezed, rolled and pinched, squeezed and cupped. His hands were large and warm, the skin of his fingers hard and dry, the hands of a man who was used to doing manual work.

I sat, compliant. He bent further and I felt his breath in my ear, his bristly cheek nestling in my hair. He whispered one word. "whore". And then he stood up and I felt his cock at the back of my neck, his fist pumping gently up and down it and banging into the back of my head, getting caught up in my hair. And then he moved round to my right hand side, facing me. He pulled my shoulder half round towards him and then he pulled my dress and my bra away from my chest and leant in, his cock was big and ugly. Uncircumcised, with big, lumpy veins and the end wet and reeking of semen, as he pumped the end touched my chest, leaving snail trail of slime glistening in the candle light. And then he came. Long, thick ropes of semen firing out and sticking to my boob, like wax from a long burned out candle. It was lumpy and almost yellow and it started its journey downwards, slipping slowly down, covering my pink nipple until you couldn't really see it.

He pulled my bra back up and patted the cup gently into the mess on my boob. It stuck. And then the dress was pulled into place. He stood straighter and slowly, deliberately, wiped the wet end of his cock on my cheek and then grasping a lock of my hair, wiped the end dry. As he tucked himself away, I heard the sound of David running up the stairs and then his keys in the lock.

For the next 10 minutes I sat next to him while he leant back in his chair and smoked, chatting to David while his semen drip dripped down my front under my dress. I could feel the little rivulets running down my stomach and hitting the waistband of my knickers and, worst of all, I could smell him on my body. I couldn't understand how David didn't notice; but he seemed oblivious. And then Mr. McKenzie was standing up and heading for the door, his evening over.

I didn't stay the night. I made some excuse about having a headache and drove home. I got undressed and headed for the shower. But before I got in I stopped and looked down at my body. There were flakes of dried semen on my boob and bits of the underside were still wet, with the sharp nip of ammonia unmistakable. I turned, leaving the shower unused and headed for bed. I lay back and my right hand gently massaged the remaining seed into my boob while my left had dipped and stroked between my legs, dipping to seek the copious juices and rising to coat my swollen clit. I came five times that night before I slept. Now, 9 years later, I still remember that evening, and it is still the most erotic experience of my life.