The sounds inside the office increased in frequency and tenor. Candy was clearly cumming over and over again as Tate drove his cock inside her tight, needy pussy.
No one...no one would watch.
Tiffany gulped, unbuttoning her top button. God, but it was hot in this stupid hallway. She’d have to talk with maintenance about that. So very hot and...and...lusty...and...god, Tate had a big cock, didn't he? That was so interesting.
Another cry signaled another orgasm from Candy.
Tiffany let her hands slide around her breasts for a moment. Maybe if she took a peak, she could tell them to keep it down. Or...or anticipate, like, scream if Candy was going to cry out, and mask the sound.
Sure. Scream over the cries of passion. That would be much less suspicious.
Guided by this suspect reasoning, Tiffany cracked open the door to her office. Inside, she saw Candy’s thick, heavy tits on top of the desk. Tiffany’s desk. Tate drove into Candy from behind, his incredibly developed back muscles rippling with the effort of the furious fucking.
Tiffany's fingers slipped down to her pants. Quickly, they were unbuttoned, and she was sliding her fingers against her moist cunt.
What was wrong with her?
Tate fucked Candy even harder, his thrusts spreading the blonde’s legs out wide, the bimbo's milk spurting all over the desk, and Tiffany realized she didn’t care what was wrong with her. Her fingers plunged deeper and deeper into her cunt as she re-learned how to masturbate. The motions came back quickly, and her fingers pressed down on her sensitive clit. She didn't care that the stupid bimbo was wrecking her desk, and she didn't care that Tate was a musclebound idiot who clearly only cared about his cock, and she didn't care that she was getting so incredibly turned on by watching the two try to start a fire with the friction of their private parts.
“Oh Tate!” Candy moaned. “Oh, Master! Baby! Oh please! Cum in me! Oh god, do it! Yeah, baby, do it!”
With a crashing grunt, Tate visibly emptied himself into Candy's cunt. Tiffany came with him, and her, watching with bliss as the quarterback and maid contorted with ecstasy.
It was Tiffany's first orgasm in ten years.
She closed her eyes, biting her lip and trying to suppress the long moans she wanted to fill the hallway with. She had forgotten how fucking good it felt to play with herself. How right it felt to enjoy the act of fucking—even if it was just to watch it from a distance like she was now.
Just as she opened her eyes from the sweet little cum, she saw Candy’s face. The bimbo winked at Tiffany. Like they were sharing a secret.
Maybe they were. Tiffany ran away down the hall, horrified at herself and what she'd done.
* * * * *
The day after Candy’s arrival, after a long evening at home with a bottle of wine, Tiffany felt leagues better. No more shame, no more embarrassment, no more thoughts that she should turn in her resignation as an independent, successful woman to the League of Independent, Successful Women and bow her head in disgrace as they all—rightfully—called her a shameful slut.
Yes, all that self-pity was gone away completely, now. The incident the day before had been an anomaly. That was all there was to it.
She stepped out of the cold shower she had just given herself, drying herself off bit by bit. She reflected for probably the thousandth time how she enjoyed having short hair. It required so much less maintenance, particularly in the mornings.
Her condo was spacious, located in the upper west side of the city. It had tall windows and two stories; an appropriate amount of space for her to sometimes entertain guests. Mostly, though, it was just for her. She took pride in the Spartan nature of its decoration—almost nothing was there that did not need to be. Most of the walls were blank save for the deep red paint that covered them, and there was only one plant, deep in the corner next to the windows of the kitchen.
It was cold in her home, and colder still after the cold shower she had just prescribed herself, but that was all right. She wanted it that way. Only moments before her shower, her fingers had been firmly inside her pussy, coaxing her to her second orgasm in ten years—and all that was gone now.
Yes, leagues better. That’s how she felt.
There was absolutely nothing wrong with Tiffany. There was nothing affecting her, and nothing assailing her emotions. She was in complete control, now and always, and she had nothing at all to worry about in that regard, some stupid contract with Castle or no.
Last night, drinking her wine, she had checked and re-checked and re-checked the contract she had with Castle. It absolutely forbade him to do anything at all to modify Tiffany. So, that little hint of lipstick that been applied to her lips from Candy—that just must have been what Candy did to others when she kissed him. Now that Tiffany had laid out how inappropriate it was for the bimbo to touch her again, she had nothing else to worry about.
That little incident right outside Candy’s offi—her office, Tiffany’s own office that she had earned with years and years of thankless work and a cut-throat attitude—that incident, well. It had happened. There was no denying that.
But, Tiffany merely got caught up in the moment. The way someone might tear up during a sad scene in a movie, she had simply become very, very turned on by what she had been watching. The trick, from now on, was simply to ensure she didn’t watch anything like that, and especially not right after kissing Candy’s deeply plush, hot lips (not that she wanted to do that in the first place! No, sliding her tongue into Candy’s perfect mouth and tasting that little pink dart, sucking on it needfully while stuffing fingers into her own hot cunt—no way! Tiffany did not want that at all). Clearly, seeing that public display of romance between Candy and Tate affected her deeply, and disallowed her to keep control of her normal thinking processes.
More than anything, Tiffany knew that the beginning of the arousal-soaked dream she had suffered from this morning was just a misfiring in her brain. She wasn’t even sure she remembered such the dream at all, really. In fact, who was to say that she hadn’t gotten straight up out of bed and jumped into the shower so quickly that she simply mistook her foggy, early morning recollection of the dream as something else that reminded her of the day before?
Yes. That would explain the way she thought she remembered her fingers buried deep in her cunt when she woke up, and the burning hot need for release she felt. It was just...how quickly she went to the shower. That was all.
It was silly to think it was anything else. And if Tiffany was anything, it was definitely not silly.
The cold shower had probably been entirely unnecessary. An early assault on a threat that didn’t even exist. That was just her personality, though. That was how she had stayed on top for so many years—striking at others before they even knew they should strike at her. That old fool James Conroy, for example; the head of the Regulations Department. She had pushed him there two years ago to get him out of the running for ownership of The Tornados, and because she had caught him by surprise, he actually thought she was helping him.
No longer, of course. He sent her a hate-filled email every month or so, disparaging her performance as an owner.
As she pondered this, she stepped in front of the mirror and abruptly dropped her towel. Her full reflection was shown there—long legs, slender body, and average bust. Not to worry, she thought idly. I don't have to worry about anything. I’m very pretty, after all, and pretty girls get what they want.
Pretty women, she corrected, barely noticing how she called herself pretty. She couldn’t help it if her face looked a little more striking and youthful than usual, after all.
Empowered by this train of thought, she slipped into her closet and put on the tallest pair of heels she owned—a modest black pair of 2-inch pumps. That would show them. She could wear whatever she liked. It didn’t make her sex crazy just because she knew she had a rather nice set of legs.
* * * * *
Week 7
The Tornados' W-L Record: 2-4
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br /> Feeling rather clandestine, Tiffany arrived at the stadium early on Monday morning, as she always did.
There was no one around. No one to say hi to, and no one to admire the way Tiffany had clearly been losing a little weight around her waist over the past couple weeks. Her steady diet of salads and nuts was paying off, particularly now that she suddenly no longer had any desires to binge. As a result, she was looking and feeling fine.
Tiffany knew she was a perfectly serious and business-minded person. There wasn’t any other explanation for how she had made it so far in life, after all. So, what would be the harm in dressing up a little?
None, she decided. That’s why today, her peach-colored blouse had the top few buttons undone, why she had worn a flirty knee-length skirt, and why her thick, dark hair was let down to frame her face.
Looking in the mirror as she dressed that morning, she had decided she rather liked herself above the neck. Her hair had grown out over the last couple of weeks, but that was fine. Even expected. A woman's hair ought to have a little length to it. Her lips were plump and full and kissable, and dark eyes were full of all manner of sexy promise. There was no reason that a man wouldn’t fall all over himself to push his cock inside of her.
She blushed with that graphic thought. She hadn’t had sex in years. She hadn’t needed it. Sex merely got in the way.
Probably it was all the romance novels she had started reading. Rebecca had left one on her desk a couple of weeks ago, The Wife’s Indiscretion, and Tiffany had begun leafing through it. At first, it was out of a mocking condescension—she was certain only idiots and drama queens read that sort of tripe filth. As soon as she finished the first, however, she petitioned Rebecca for another, and then another. The Wife’s Indiscretion was followed by The Wife’s Tryst, and then that had a spin-off called The Lady’s Burden.
As she read more and more, Tiffany found herself increasingly interested in the characters and their motivations. All the women thought they had their lives just how they wanted them, but really they were just spinning plates, waiting for one to fall and tumble the whole mess down. Invariably a man showed up to fix it all for them and to stuff the women, furiously, with his stiff hard cock. Usually, he was quite fertile, and left the girl pregnant, quitting her lucrative career to support whatever it was the man was trying to do and give him a family like she was born for.
Tiffany didn’t seem to mind that the novels were so full of such graphic, erotic language. All the women in the stories were very happy to suck and please and beg for whatever the men gave them. It was such a strange mixture of erotica and romance, and despite knowing how basically awful it all was, Tiffany couldn’t put them down.
As she made her rounds through the early morning stadium, Tiffany was in high spirits. The plan with Tate was going swimmingly. They had won their last two games handily. He hadn’t thrown a single interception in the last two games, and in the last game alone, he ran in four touchdowns single-handedly from the option—which the coaches informed Tiffany had barely been practiced. He seemed to toss off defenders like they were flies, though if enough of them ganged together, they could bring him down. There was clear, significant muscle mass gain to his body, but despite the thorough drug testing from the league, he was totally clean.
Quietly, making sure no one was looking as she went, she slipped into the cheerleader’s locker room. It was down the hall from the football players’ locker room. Sometimes Tiffany daydreamed about all those dumb players getting lost and accidentally ending up in the cheerleader’s locker room, an unstoppable orgy ensuing. When she’d first had the thoughts, shortly after buying the team, they had been wry and cynical— “Oh sure, that’ll be the day.” And then after the sex scandal last year, the thoughts turned worrisome.
Lately, though, they had become somewhat intriguing. What would an orgy between those titans of manlihood and epitomes of cheerful girlishness look like? Her pussy twinged and moistened, just slightly, as she lingered on the thought.
She shook her head, batting the idea away. Didn’t matter. Tiffany was in the cheerleader’s locker room for a reason. Navigating herself around easily—she studied the map the night before with a glass of wine in one hand, and a finger lightly pressed against her nipples—she found and opened Candy’s locker.
Inside were a series of red-hot lingerie outfits, several bottles of milk (oh god, she really was one of the Milk Maids. Tiffany would have to complain to Castle again), and extra pairs of footwear. There was also a veritable treasure trove of love-filled notes about Tate. It seemed rather more like the locker of a lovestruck schoolgirl than a professional cheerleader.
That was, she had to admit, sort of hot. There was something just stupidly, erotically romantic about a brilliantly sexy cheerleader like Candy falling for a big athlete hunk like Tate. Of course, it was all pre-planned for the two, but somehow...somehow that made it even sexier. Planning out the romance for them, deciding who they fell in love with; deciding how turned on they would be and how much they would change.
Tiffany could understand, suddenly, why Castle was getting blowjobs all the time. The constant power trip he was on must have been thoroughly arousing.
Even just from sneaking around like this, Tiffany felt her arousal rising. Maybe that was why she had started sweating. Absently, she grabbed the nearest thing she could find to wipe her brow—and noticed only afterward that it was a pair of Candy’s used panties. For some reason, Tiffany held the panties to her nose and inhaled—and then inhaled even deeper.
She stepped away for a moment, giggling, her mind suddenly full of jello.
After only a few moments, the feeling began to dissipate, but that had been a powerful dose of lust delivered straight to her brain. She set the panties down, her steps slightly uncertain.
Tiffany straightened her jaw resolutely. What was wrong with her? Get back to the matter at hand: grabbing some new shoes. That was what was important. Candy was an idiot, obviously—just look at her—and Tiffany knew the stupid blonde wouldn’t notice anything missing from her locker.
Especially not a pair of heels. Candy was getting to Tiffany, just a little. It was stupid, but Tiffany felt like she was under-performing, somehow, by continuing to wear her pantsuits and other forms of conservative clothing.
On the bottom of the locker beneath a series of heart-bordered pieces of paper declaring “Tate + Candy 4everrr!”, Tiffany found what she was looking for: a pair of fashionable black pumps.
There, she thought smugly, slipping them on. These were perfectly professional, the heel no greater than three inches, and she could feel confident that she was showing off one of her finest features in her ass—and hey, her legs were there too, fellas. You don’t need to keep looking down this blouse all the time.
She giggled at the thought. Guiding men where to look, how to look. It was empowering, feeling like she had control over their eyes in that manner. There was no reason to think that she didn’t. Tiffany had splendidly sexy attributes, so it was only natural for her to show them off and establish her control over men with what nature had given her.
There was guilt and shame rolled into her feelings, of course, but the confidence was the greatest feeling, propelled by a greater and greater sense of self-importance.
All those girls in those erotica novels wore such fetching high heels, after all. The writing went on and on about how men would look at their legs because of the heels they wore. Some of the girls kept wearing the heels even after they were pregnant—they would ask their man about how high of a heel to wear, and then add an inch or two just to keep him guessing. That was smart—that was really devious and smart. Tiffany sighed for a moment, thinking dreamily about taking advantage of a man like that—dressing up just how he wanted and getting stuffed so full of his cock that he wouldn’t have any choice but to cum in her.
Yes, that was very devious. She’d have to find some way to do it very soon. It was fun to imitate the story. It was almost like she was
living in one.
* * * * *
Later that day, feeling all business in her sexy-hot stilettos and short skirt, she made a call to Castle.
The calls had become routine. There were a number of items on today's docket, as there always were: the progress that Candy was making, whether she was actually creating milk, and whether anyone else was being brought into the twisted confines of Castle's control. Tiffany always asked, but Castle always had some explanation, and as the weeks went on, he only seemed to make more and more sense.
She brought up the bottles of milk she had found, and the numerous instances she had seen Candy wearing a soaked t-shirt. But, as Castle explained, unless she could verify that it was indeed lactation that Tiffany was seeing, there was no legal recourse she had. And the only way to verify the lactation was to touch it or taste it, and Tiffany certainly wasn’t going to be doing that any time soon. She wasn’t a fool, for god’s sake.
She sighed, slipping her fingers past the edges of her skirt and up her bare thighs, admiring her feet in the shiny black stilettos she had borrowed. They made the turn of her calves pop so nicely.
“...Tiffany? Are you listening? I asked if there was anything else you wanted to talk about.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I was miles away.”
That was odd, wasn’t it? Calling Castle “dear.” She had to tighten down on that, really let him have it! She didn't respect him, after all. She rather loathed him.
Right?
“Okay, yes,” she continued after a moment. “Right. Listen, darling, I’d really love it if you could expand your operations here a little bit.”
“How do you mean?”
“Whatever you’re doing to Candy with Tate, I want her to do it with Karlyle as well.”
“Karlyle?”
“He keeps missing Tate’s passes,” Tiffany sat forward. There was a strange pressure happening below her navel, but she couldn’t define it. It was so important to talk to Castle, to be clear. “We nearly lost the last game because of him. If it wasn’t for Tate deciding he would run on the option, we would have been left in the cold.”
The Maid For Pleasure Bundle 2 Page 12
