“Putting it politely, you’re wondering whether this guy brought me all the way to New York just to sign a few documents, or did he have other things in mind?”
Actually, I thought, twisting a blonde curl around my middle finger, that’s not bad.
“So, how would you put it impolitely?” I asked, my nipples stiffening at my blatant encouragement.
“Impolitely, you’re wondering whether this American dude wants to use this long table for just business or pleasure.”
I felt dampness seep through the thin thread of my silk panties. This is so outrageous, I thought. I’m supposed to be a “good girl”. And yet, being bad felt so much better.
“So, if you were to be just fucking vulgar about it, what would you say I’m thinking?” I asked, saliva glistening on my teeth.
“I’d say you’re wondering whether this American dude wants to use this table to fuck you senseless.”
My hands gripped tight against my skirt now, to stop myself from reaching out and grabbing for his cock, such was my desire. “Well,” I commented, provocatively inserting a finger between my lips, “that certainly was fucking vulgar. So, what does this horny American dude want to do with me then?”
His dark eyes glistened with possibilities. “I’m more of a hands-on colleague, Becky,” he said, moving closer to me. “I’d much prefer to show you.”
He lifted me from the waist and placed my bottom down against the edge of the table. I was amazed by the ease of the movement, by his obvious strength and power. His lips urgently pressed against my own and his tongue darted inside. The business etiquette and professionalism was a distant memory. His long-fingered hands were eager and penetrating. Edward tore at my blouse, ripping it open. Two buttons fell against the table and bounced onto the heavy, carpeted floor. My large succulent tits were pulled out over my black lacy see-through bra. The pink raw nipples were immediately pinched between forefinger and thumb. A moan emitted from my throat.
“You are very hands-on,” I purred, appreciatively. “Shouldn’t you lock the door?”
“No,” he said, his tongue exploring along my neck, grazing my tender young skin with his teeth.
“Couldn’t somebody walk in?” I asked, barely able to speak. My mouth remained open; my head tilted back, my eyes staring blankly at the bright lights on the ceiling.
“Yes,” he replied, before taking a hard nipple between his lips and sucking it into his mouth.
“You really are a bad, horny bastard,” I said, but I knew and he knew that it most definitely wasn’t an insult.
Edward hitched my skirt high over my hips. His hands glided over my long slender stocking-clad legs. I spread them wide and gripped my calves around his waist, straddling him. There was no way he could escape. The wonderful hands continued all the way along the crease of my thigh until they reached my panties. The tips of his fingers brushed over my sodden crotch. The plumpness of my sex was exposed and available through the tiny material.
“Oh, fuck,” I moaned, as a finger pressed against my prominent erect clit. “You are such a fucking bad American city boy.”
He fingered me now; one, two and then three fingers thrusting inside my drenched pussy. His face nestled tenderly between my milky tits. His tongue was no longer tender, however. There was a raw want and need to his touch as a bud was sucked deeper into his mouth. He glanced up momentarily, those brown eyes looking sweetly at me.
Edward told me, before lowering his face between my legs, that he’d planned the whole thing ever since he first spoke to me on the phone.
I gripped hold of his thick hair as he expertly licked me. His tongue circled my clit in a mesmerizing, hypnotic rhythm that made hot juices trickle down my thighs, staining the polished mahogany table. I arched my back up and looked over his shoulders at the city outside, full of bright lights and people going on their way, all of them oblivious to the fact that on the very top floor of this building, I was being licked to a thunderous orgasm.
“Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh,” I repeated like a mantra as my legs tightened around his neck and my grip on his hair became almost vicious. I begged for him to be inside me, as his lips kissed mine and I tasted my own salty, delicious juices.
I tore off his blazer and shirt. His body was lean and strong and there was a fine line of thick dark hair running in a trail down his chest. The thick broad shoulders were speckled with a thin layer of cute freckles. I got down on my knees and unzipped his fly and pulled out his long hard cock from inside his pants. I remembered my wildest fantasies in the bath tub.
I was going to take the initiative now. I pressed my hands against the window, parted my legs slightly and leant forward, exposing my shapely arse and my pink sex beneath. I demanded that he fuck me from behind, told him that I wanted to watch the city with him inside me.
He spoke no words as he did exactly as he was told. His thrusts were fast and animalistic. His heavy groans were matched by my loud, abandoned sighs. His hands were on my hips, then he leant forward and cupped my tits. I could feel his forehead pressing against my hot cheek as he pushed in and out of me. My lust overspilled as I came again and again. I could feel him tensing, ready to explode, and I pulled away and got down on my knees and took him in my mouth. I lapped up the juices as they dribbled down my chin.
We cleaned ourselves and dressed and regained our breath and composure. I had a wild night ahead of me in New York. This was not going to involve Edward, however. There was so much mischief I could get up to in his city alone.
Just as I was applying a layer of lipstick, fully clothed, a cleaner walked into the room unannounced, apologized and walked out again. We both laughed, knowing that we could have been interrupted at any time.
When we were outside, Edward asked when I wanted him to organize another business trip to New York.
I hailed a cab, kissed him on the lips and told him that I didn’t think he should organize another trip to New York. I stepped inside the taxi. “I have some great places in mind where we can close a deal in London first.”
I blew him a kiss as the cab sped off.
Any regrets that I screwed over my female boss? You can bet your last American dollar that, hell no, I have no regrets.
Driving The Girls Home
Peter, London
I had worked for the government for over twenty-five years. I was moderately successful and ended up in a middle management position where I was quite happy. To be a member of “The Establishment”, as it was quaintly termed then, I had to be respectable, smart and sober (at least on the surface). I must have fitted the bill.
Anyway, the day came round when some slimming down of numbers was called for and in my mid-forties I was marked for an early retirement. The package was quite good and I reckoned I could live off it for a few years; even though I had just splashed out on a nice car, a comfortable Jaguar with easy room for five people. Ironic really, as I lived on my own.
Working in central London, I often used to wander round the theatre and cinema parts of the West End in my lunch hour. Soho was right next door so I often stopped by the shops selling sexy magazines and who knew what else. I didn’t dare to go in any of them in case I was seen by a colleague! On my last day at work, I took a nostalgic stroll through the mean streets of the capital and was passing by a hostess club, as they were often called; basically a clip joint where randy businessmen were enticed in by offers of cold booze and hot bodies – all at a price they never expected until the bill came. This place, the Flamingo, was through a doorway and down a flight of dingy steps under one of those bookshops I just mentioned. I had never been tempted down there; I knew from reading the Sunday papers what they were like.
Anyway, this day there was a handwritten note stuck to the glass display window showing pictures of improbably beautiful blondes allegedly inside. It said: “Driver wanted, must have own car, preferably large. See Alex downstairs.”
I had been wondering what to do with my retirement and how to earn a bit of part-time
cash. I liked driving and I’d just bought the Jag, big enough I thought. So, greatly daring, I went through the dark doorway and down narrow twisty stairs. At the bottom was a bored-looking older woman sitting at a desk and a big burly chap in a sort of doorman’s uniform who I guessed was the bouncer.
“Five pounds, dear,” said the woman. “That includes a free drink, a show and our lovely ladies.” She said all this in the dull monotone of someone who has said it a thousand times before and didn’t believe it the first time.
I cleared my throat. “Mmm, I’ve come to see Alex.” I saw the bouncer tense and move closer to me. “It’s about the advert upstairs, for a driver.”
The woman at the front desk beckoned over the doorman and whispered in his ear. This tough guy relaxed a little (whew!) and asked me to follow him. As we went through a curtain to a corridor leading off to the right he said that you couldn’t be too careful in this game. Sometimes rival club owners sent people to cause trouble.
I wondered what I had got myself into.
Through a battered door was an office in which I was introduced to Alex, a small, swarthy man almost concealed by piles of paperwork spilling off his desk. The walls were papered with pin-up pictures, some clearly dating from previous decades. The smell of damp was overwhelming.
Our conversation was brief. He said, “You gotta big car? OK. You come here every night, two o’clock, except Sunday. You pick up the girls, maybe five, maybe six, take them home. That’s it. I pay you for your time and your juice. I know the distances, so don’t try to stiff me on the costs. Your car uses more gas, your problem not mine. You deal with your tax and so on, not my business. OK? Oh, and keep your hands off the girls, they’re not a perk.”
I gathered I had the job; not much like a Civil Service recruitment board! The pay Alex offered was OK, not great but not too shabby. Getting up to drive through the early hours of the morning was going to be a pain but I’d try it. On the way out, the lady on the desk stopped me. She asked if I’d got the job and then asked the bouncer to take me to the bar, no charge. That was a nice gesture, I thought. The bar was in the club’s main area, just a large cellar really with some mismatched tables and chairs and a small stage. Two or three businessmen were being entertained at one of the tables by a couple of the girls; quite pretty, I noticed. I got my drink – the real stuff, the barman whispered, not the stuff they kept for the punters. He explained that the girls were OK to get to the club during the day or early evening but none of them would take a night bus home in the early hours. The club used to have a taxi contract but it got too dear. Alex reckoned a private driver with time to spare using his own car would be cheaper, him earning tax-free cash and no overheads.
Thinking of what Alex was paying me compared to London cab fares, I reckoned he knew a thing or two.
So, when I got to the club on my first night, I found the girls just getting ready to go home. The hostesses, as they were called, were in fact attractive and I was later to discover smart, too. Some were college girls earning some quick money; others, housewives working for the same reason. I had five to take, one next to me and four squeezed in the back. They didn’t mind. Giggling, they bunched up together. They made a few cheeky remarks, probably to test me out, but I just laughed. A couple of them pretended to be smooching in the back; one girl was caressing the other’s tits, she in turn was putting an inquisitive hand up the first girl’s skirt and it looked like her attentions were very welcome. Maybe they weren’t just putting me on. Hell, I didn’t care; it was a free show in my mirror, which was more than the punters ever got.
I lived south of the river so it made sense to leave that area until last. I had a pretty good idea of the routes needed and the girls would give me directions once we were in the general vicinity of their homes. There was Carol, blonde and busty, for Tottenham; Cindy, dark and curvy, for Mill Hill; Lucy, red hair and freckles, for Cockfosters (no double entendre intended); and auburn-haired Patsy for New Cross. My last was Samantha, blonde and friendly, for Battersea.
Samantha had a rucked-up skirt and a saucy grin to match. When we got to her home in Battersea, it turned out to be in an old block of what used to be called mansion flats. These had definitely fallen on hard times, not much was grand about them. To my surprise, Sammy invited me in. With no more drop-offs and an overwhelming need for a coffee to keep me awake for the drive home, I said yes. Why not? Her flat was on the first floor and inside it was really nicely decorated with some Mexican rugs as wall hangings, what appeared to be antique furniture and a soft squishy leather couch, worn enough to be comfortable but not shabby.
Sammy got me the coffee and we sat side by side on that couch. She told me about herself; a well-educated girl who found she could make more from her job entertaining punters than working in an office. “More fun, too,” she claimed. “Hey, do you like my legs?” She stretched them out and her skirt slid nearly up to her waist. Her panties were visible as thin and lacy with a hint of her bush showing through. “The punters like stockings and suspenders – bet you do, too! Most of the girls wear them. You get more tips that way, a flash of thigh works wonders!”
Then, to my surprise, she stood up, took my hand and pulled me to my feet. “Come on, you look like you need a bit of bedtime.”
And she pulled me to her bedroom where we collapsed together on the bed. Her fingers were busy undoing my shirt and trousers. I wasn’t so surprised that I couldn’t help, either! After I was naked, she stripped to her bra, stockings, suspender belt and panties and slid under the covers with me. Her lips smooched mine, her bra poked my chest in the nicest way and my fingers were guided down to that hot, damp area between her legs. Her soft, gentle fingers caressed my shaft, now fully erect and willing, and then fondled my balls, suddenly giving them a firm squeeze.
“Don’t get too excited, lover,” she whispered, “plenty of time yet.”
I stroked up her back from her rear cheeks to her neck and slid open the catch on her bra. Her breasts were surprisingly large with bold, dark-red nipples standing proud. An exploratory lick made her moan, then my lips were on first one then the other, sucking and teasing. She threw her head back and began to buck against me. She pulled my fingers down between her legs; already she was soaking there. Her slit through the gauzy panties felt slick and sensuous. I pushed the material aside and inserted two fingers, and she moaned even more. All the while, I was suckling and licking; she really did get turned on by attention to her tits. The sort of detail every lover should learn about his girl, what really lights her touchpaper.
“Please, please . . .” I just heard her through the haze of lust in my brain. I felt her raise her pretty little bottom off the bed as I tugged her panties down over her suspenders. Something tore with a ripping sound, fantastically erotic. She rolled on top of me – what a girl for taking the lead. She lowered herself onto my very upstanding cock and I felt her warm, wet flesh envelop and contain me. She rode up and down on me, her thrusts and mine synchronized; she gripped my head as I tried to suckle still from her breasts.
I began to think I would burst. As the pressure built up inside me, my balls felt they were going to explode; if she didn’t climax soon, I would have to anyway. Faster and faster she rocked up and down, back and forth, and then she screamed, a full-bloodied banshee wail of ecstasy and, maybe, triumph. She got her man! And, at the same time, I came too, fast and furious deep inside her, waves of cream into her sweet sex.
Most times that I took Sammy home, we ended up in bed. Somehow it was a welcome relief for her to make love to a man who wasn’t paying for it and who liked her for herself, no pretences.
Sometimes Sammy wasn’t in the club when I came to take the girls home so it might be that flame-haired Lucy was my last drop-off in the wilds of north London. Now, she lived in a modern little house which she shared with two other girls. If they were either away or in bed, Lucy would invite me in. The first time she did I wondered if it would be a repeat of the Sammy sex session. Well, it was
and it wasn’t. She went out to change and came back wearing a skimpy baby doll nightie and tiny pants. She stood in front of me, a finger in her mouth, her head on one side and her feet tucked awkwardly together; a good imitation of a penitent schoolgirl (except no schoolgirl had legs as long and breasts as big as Lucy).
“I’ve been very naughty and deserve to be spanked,” she said, faux apologetically. I wondered if she used this act with the customers. Spanking Lucy was certainly an inviting thought. I thought I’d better play along (just try to stop me!).
I put on my sternest voice and told her that a severe spanking was the only way with naughty girls like her and to get over my lap. She quickly snuggled down over my knees, her pert little bottom upraised, still covered by those teeny, tiny panties. Her hand supported her on the floor, her thighs were stretched out straight and her toes just touching the carpet. Perfect!
“Six, I think, Miss, and another two on the backs of your thighs.”
I felt her shiver but she didn’t complain.
I raised my hand and brought down one hard smack on that pantie-clad bottom. The sound seemed to echo round the room and she gasped. I stroked her abused little butt a little and then delivered another sound smack. This time she gasped slightly. Three, four and five smacks in quick succession had her writhing on my lap. I told her to stay still or she would get extra. She calmed down and I gave her the last stroke on her bottom. I could see already through the thin material that her cheeks were glowing a very healthy red. This last smack on her pretty little derrière was sharp and quick and she cried out. Tears began to roll silently down her face.
I turned my attention to her thighs, so nicely exposed with taut bare flesh. One and two open-palmed smacks on the right and on the left thighs; she cried out again and the tears ran a bit faster.
I found myself holding her tighter to me, cuddling and comforting her, telling her she was a brave girl, it was all right now. She wriggled round and sat on my lap, wincing at the pain. Her arms were round my neck and she kissed me full on the lips. Then she said, “You’d better go now. Thank you.”
The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions Page 33
