Office Shenanigans

He gave me permission to come once on Tuesday, on the condition that I had to send him a detailed report of what, when, how and what I was thinking about.

*

It was late when I finally laid down, half past eleven or so. I was wearing a lounger, the purple one with flowers all over it, all in whites and pinks and purples. I lay on my back on top of the red sheets, with a white comforter close at hand in case I got too cold. It was quiet and the fan wasn't running.

Closing my eyes, I summoned up an image of me sitting in a small office, sitting back in a metal chair with a molded seat, presumably to make it more comfortable for the person sitting. It wasn't more comfortable, not really. Because I am so short, my feet dangled just out of reach of the floor. It made me feel like a child, a helpless, nervous one at that.

As I drifted into the fantasy, I started touching my breasts through the material of the lounger, cupping them, squeezing them, pinching the nipples lightly at first then with increasing pressure.

There was a man sitting across the desk from me in a comfortable padded seat, a chair of someone with authority. A high backed throne covered in supple black leather, but no arm rests. I found that odd, but couldn't say exactly why. His hair was dark, cut short and severe, not military, but close. He was not wearing a suit, but a button down white shirt, the tie at half-mast, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off nicely muscled arms with soft dark hair. The top two or three buttons were undone and I could see the crisp white undershirt beneath.

I could feel him looking at me, his expression hungry somehow. He smiled at me and I could feel his dark eyes on my bare skin, right through the cheap black polyester suit I was wearing. I tried my best to ignore this, but I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. I have always blushed easily. Even as a girl.

I need this job, I remind myself sternly.

I slid my right hand down from my breast, over my stomach and under the hem of the lounger. My thighs parted and I lifted my knees, planting my heels on the sheeted mattress. The flesh between my legs was soft, smooth. I squeezed the mound of flesh, kneaded it, and ran the tip of my index finger along the slit of my vagina, teasing, but not dipping in, not yet.

"I'm afraid the position has already been filled." The man said, and he sounded regretful, he did, but there was something else in his voice, something I couldn't place. A smugness that put my nerves on end even as my heart sank.

I really need this job, I thought again and the words slipped from my head, out my mouth and into the empty space between us.

His eyes sharpened, predatory. "'I need this job, what?"

I licked my lips nervously. "I need this job, Sir,"

Now I touched myself down there, slowly inserting my fingertip into the folds of my flesh, soft and wet. Eyes closed, immersing myself in the fantasy I had spun in my head, I explored the labia, then probed a little deeper. While my right hand explored my pussy, my left had remained on my breasts, kneading, fondling, pinching and tugging at the nipples hard enough to cause little zings of almost-but-not pain, alternating between the left and right so neither felt neglected.

"And what would you be willing to do to secure a position here with our company?" He asked, leaning forward in his seat.

Be careful, my mind whispered, sensing a trap. I mentally ticked over a laundry list of bills that had been piling up, unpaid. I had been looking for a job for six months with no results, living off my credit cards, becoming more anxious, digging myself deeper and deeper into debt. Sure, it might be a trap all right, but I really needed this job.

"Anything," I whispered hoarsely, "I'll do anything to work here, to work for you."

He leaned back in his seat, steepled his fingers, a satisfied grin on his face. "Excellent," he murmured.

The mental image of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons flashed through my mind and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling, or worse, laughing out loud.

He stood then, his fingers going to his belt.

"Now," he ordered, "come here."

With slow deliberation I dipped my right index finger into the depths of my pussy then slid it to my clit. I ran it lightly over the hood, back and forth, just a whisper of pressure. My left hand abandoned my breasts and traveled down between my upright knees, spreading the flesh with my fingers, giving better access to that tiny bud. I rubbed the clit, back and forth, then little circular motions, paying slightly more attention to the left side, which for some reason seemed to be more sensitive than the right.

I crossed over to him, moving behind the gigantic desk. My hands trembled and my knees felt like water. His belt was now undone, his pants and briefs - whitey tighties, we called them when I was a kid - down around his knees. I could see his cock jutting up from a thick thatch of pubic hair, semi-hard. It is thick, and large, much larger than anything I've ever seen outside of porn videos.

Impressive.

"Ride my dick," he ordered. He did not ask, but then again, he didn't have to. He already knew he had me where he wanted me. And he didn't look like the kind of man who said please or thank you often. "If you want to work for me, you've got to spread your legs like a good girl."

I bowed my head, and my hair fell forward, a curtain of brown to hide my shame, my fear, my... excitement. Yes, even that, even now. It quickened my heartbeat, speed up my breathing as I got on my knees before him and began to fondle that massive cock, urging it to rise, running my hands over it in long, squeezing strokes.

And rise it did.

Oh, my God, I thought, there is no way in hell I'm going to get this bad boy inside me. But I was damned sure going to try.

"What are you waiting for?"

I brought my fingers to my mouth and gathered some saliva for moisture. Then I rubbed it over my clit, making it slick, easing the friction so that my fingers slid easily over its tip. Both the rhythm and pressure had increased and I could feel the first stirrings of pleasure. My breath eased in and out of my throat, heavier now, almost panting. I lifted my knees, brought them up to my chest to change the angle, bring my clitoris closer, rubbing harder. I made a V with the pointer and middle finger and slid them over the flesh, occasionally dipping into the moist depths of my vagina. My hips began to rock up and down mindlessly as I allowed the sensations to build.

I hiked my skirt up to my hips, and slid my black panties down over the garter and thigh highs and let them fall into a puddle of lacy cloth at my feet. I wrapped my hand around his cock, judging the width with my fingers. It was a big one, thick and long. A part of me was glad he was well hung and didn't have a thin pencil dick. It was difficult to work up any enthusiasm when your partner was tiny. But this, I thought, spitting into the palm of my hand and running it over the head of his penis, this I could work with.

I straddled his knees facing him and I was glad there weren't any armrests on his chair. It would only have made things awkward. Keeping my eyes down, focusing on the task at hand, I rested one hand on his broad shoulders for support and used the other to guide him to me. I rubbed the head of his penis against my entrance, teasing him, getting a feel for his size, nerving myself up for taking all that flesh into me. To my surprise, and I must add, relief, I was already wet. But was I wet enough? Would it fit?

Yes, I'd make it fit.

Slow and steady is the key to handling a large dick. Slow and steady. Any faster and you were going to be sore. But I already figured that I would be sore anyway. It had been a long time since I had taken on such a monster cock.

I drew in a small hiss of pain as I eased the first inch or so inside. Gritting my teeth, I applied more spit to the shaft to ease the friction and bore down, using the weight of my body to drive him up inside me one slow inch at a time until finally I had him balls deep inside me. I sat like that, for a few minutes, adjusting to the fullness within, taking slow breaths.

He put his big hands on my hips, and they were calloused, the hands of a man who had had to work for a living. No baby smooth hands for the working man, I thought and almost laughed again.

After a few moments, I rested both hands on his broad shoulders, and glanced at him. He nodded and shifted his hips, moving that massive cock inside me. I gasped at the sensation. God, but he was big.

Gripping his shoulders, I began to move.

My hips were thrusting upwards with a steady rhythm, my bent and raised legs moving with them as I worked my clit, running my fingers over that sensitive flesh with short, rapid movements, forefinger and middle working frantically at a pace I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up for long. My breath was coming in shortening pants and my head rolled restlessly from side to side as I felt the slow building pressure of my approaching orgasm.

My movements were slow at first, sliding down the length of him only to rise just as slowly again. But eventually I grew accustomed to his size, and the pace increased. He thrust up inside me as I slammed down, the slap of flesh on flesh and our panting breath and moans of pleasure were the only sounds in the office. He gripped my hips, fingers digging in to the flesh and I knew that there would be bruises tomorrow. He lifted me, supported me as he thrust upward into my wet flesh.

His breath was ragged, and from the tension singing through his body, I knew he would be coming soon. So I redoubled my efforts, wiggling my hips as I slip up and down his cock, until I hit that sweet spot inside and the pleasure built and sang within me.

"Oh, God, I gasped through clenched teeth, my back arching, "Oh God, oh God!"

I'm not a very religious person, but you couldn't tell as my orgasm ripped through me. I have never raised my voice very loud when I came. After all, masturbation was a thing most of us learned how to do alone and on the down low. Like many women, I came quietly, or as quietly as I could. Those teenage explorations had taught me to be as noiseless as possible lest someone - the wrong someone, a parent or nosy sibling - heard you and wondered what the heck you were doing. Or worse, KNEW what you were up to.

Talk about embarrassing.

Once my orgasm subsided, I lay there on my bed, the red sheets rumpled beneath me. After a few minutes, I rose, went to the restroom, washed my hands and returned to my bedroom, clicking the lights off as I went. I slid under the sheets, then, after a few minutes deliberation, pulled the white comforter up over me. The nights have been chilly and I didn't want to wake up later because I had gotten too cold. After checking to make sure the alarm clock was set, I rolled over onto my stomach, tucked my arms under my pillow and drifted off to sleep.