Just then, the two thumbs buried between her legs plunged between her labia, spreading them wide and exposing the pent-up wetness inside. Dexterously her opponent grazed the pad of one thumb over her throbbing clit. He moved the other one down and drew small persuasive circles around the entrance to her hole, tightening the circle each time until finally he pushed into her shallowly.
She licked furtively at her dry lips. If she allowed things to go on like this, there would be nothing left for her to bargain with. The woman took a deep, stuttered breath and, easing her stockinged foot free of its shiny stiletto, she raised a slender leg and nestled her sheathed foot in his lap. She moved her leg, using her toes to stroke the long, clearly delineated line of his erection. At first, she trailed over it lightly and felt it jump and strain, but then, noticing the beneficial results of her endeavors, she pressed more firmly, dragging the ball of her foot up and down the pulsing, covered shaft.
Her change of position had dislodged one hand. He did not fight her for territory, but ceded and improvised. Nonchalantly, he unbuttoned his trousers and slid his zipper down. Then, taking a firm grasp of her questing foot, he directed it inside his clothing and onto the hot, hard cock beneath.
His leadership was masterful indeed, she thought, feeling a spot of moisture soak into the nylon toe of her stocking. She pointed the toe and tickled gently but insistently at the sensitive area beneath the crown of his cock. Her opponent groaned and pressed his thumb deeper into her wet passage. For a moment, she actually wondered whether she hadn’t gotten the upper hand but, in a serious breach of unity, her hips began to tilt and rock of their own accord, giving him deeper access and exposing her need.
Just then, as she had concluded that a buyout was by far the best offer, he pushed his chair back and stood up. Without a moment’s warning, he lifted and pushed her, facedown, onto the boardroom table. Stepping swiftly behind her, he wrenched her skirt up over her hips. She felt the chilled air on her naked buttocks and the cool smooth wood beneath her breasts.
His hands stroked the silky skin of her ass proprietarily and his breath came ragged and noisy as he nudged her legs apart with his knees.
“I think we have moved past the initial stage of the negotiations,” he panted. Between her legs, the woman felt the hot, sticky head of her opponent’s cock; he snuggled the tip deep into the furrow of her cunt and teased it back and forth tantalizingly.
“This isn’t a buyout, is it?” she panted hoarsely, struggling beneath him. All her strategies, all her carefully laid plans had come to naught. Her position was untenable, her gambit lost.
“No,” her opponent grunted, pushing his thick pulsing cock into the tight wet velvet cave. “This, my dear,” he gasped, thrusting in deep and holding himself there, buried to the hilt, “is a hostile takeover.”
Still impaled, she felt him pull her jacket off and run his hands along the bare flesh of her back. How was she going to face her board? How would she explain the total change of ownership? How could she resist the delicious cock that, at this very moment, grew harder and thicker inside her? The woman whimpered her frustration and used her cunt muscles to beg for more, squeezing, milking him.
Her owner laughed gruffly and bent over her. His gold tie-clip pinched as he pressed his chest to her back and whispered into her ear. “Oh, what a greedy little cunt you have, my dear.”
The moan escaping her throat was cut short as he pulled out fast and rammed his cock back into her hard. The force of the thrust shoved her over the gleaming surface, her moist skin tugging and stretching painfully beneath her. Half expecting the rest of the meeting to continue at this pitch, she was surprised when he leant forward again. “This is my company, and we do things my way, here,” he said.
Filled with his cock, she felt him slowly grind into her over and over, his hips moving in a circular fashion as he stirred deep into her core. His hands reached beneath her to cup her tits, squeezing and tugging as he fucked.
She closed her eyes and reveled in the pleasure, spreading her legs as far apart as they would go. Deep inside, his cockhead pushed and pushed against her cervix, sending gorgeous rivers of electricity up her spine. Slowly, his thrusts became wilder, more urgent.
“Ahh, yes,” he hissed. “Now…now, you’re mine.”
“Yes,” she moaned, her orgasm building, coming closer with each stroke of his thick cock. “But…why…why didn’t you just get the lawyers to do it? You could have bought a much stronger concern than ours.”
He fucked her hard now, holding her hips as he plunged into her sweet hole repeatedly. She couldn’t hold back any longer, crying out as she began to shudder and convulse. Brilliant floods of pleasure swept over her body, blossoming out and then narrowing down to a tight ring around his bursting prick.
Suddenly, he grunted and jerked, hot thick streams of cum pumping into her twitching cunt. She groaned as she felt the heat spread through her and clamped tight around him, begging him for more.
Collapsing down on her, burying his face in her neck, he whispered, “But I liked you so much, I bought the company.”
A NIGHT AT THE OPERA
Evan Mora
I’m waiting for you.
I’m seated facing the entrance to the restaurant, at a choice and intimate table of your liking. I slowly swirl the contents of my glass—something subtle and red, uncorked and awaiting my arrival, a vintage of your choosing. It changes with each sampling—elegant, mysterious and complex, with a subtle but unmistakable intensity. I am reminded of you.
I sit with an air of casual disinterest in my surroundings, outwardly poised and relaxed. Nothing in my demeanor betrays the nervousness I feel as I await your arrival, save for a slight tremor in my hand as I raise my glass to my lips. I am dressed as you asked, in a simple sleeveless black dress, a favorite of yours.
The door opens and you cross the threshold, your gaze immediately and unerringly finding mine. My heart skips a beat, then resumes at an erratic, accelerated pace. One corner of your sensuous mouth curls slightly upward—I am revealed. I set down my glass and fold my hands in my lap, lowering my gaze. Your effect on me is profound, even at a distance. My body tightens with awareness and anticipation, as though awakened by your presence.
I raise my eyes to meet yours again—they’ve not left my face; I had not expected that they would. I drink in your appearance: your perfectly tailored gray suit with only the top button casually fastened, your black dress shirt accentuating your short dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. The hostess has engaged you in conversation, your body is inclined slightly toward her, and you answer her inquiries in your calm, self-assured way, your gaze still firmly holding my own. And then you move, slowly crossing the distance that separates us with lithe, confident strides. I am held captive by the strength in your frame; your body moves with the fluid grace and power of a jaguar stalking its prey.
You sit opposite me, and though my body yearns for your touch—your lips pressed to my cheek, a casual hand on my shoulder, a simple stroke of your finger on the inside of my wrist—you do not touch me, and my body struggles in desire and disappointment. My discomfiture pleases you, and you do nothing to alleviate it. Instead, you skillfully guide the conversation through appetizers, dinner and the bottle of wine, coaxing detailed and thoughtful responses from me despite the simmering arousal in my body that refuses to abate. You are fiercely intelligent and demand no less than my complete engagement in this as in all areas. You challenge me—and I am as seduced by the intensity of our debate as I am by the heat of your gaze and the promise of what is to come.
I am distracted by the sensual movement of your thumb stroking the curve of your wineglass. I can’t look away, watching the pad of your thumb move in small lazy circles on the smooth surface of the glass. You ask me a question, but I’m rendered incapable of speech, transfixed by the hypnotic movement of your hand. My body swells and responds as though it is me you are caressing, as though it is my flesh you are exploring and not some
inanimate vessel. I close my eyes for a heartbeat as a wave of intense longing floods through me. I am helpless, trembling at the mere suggestion of your touch. When I meet your eyes, I see the knowledge of your power over me reflected in their depths, and I am stripped, as surely as if I were standing naked before you.
We are headed to the theater, so I excuse myself to the restroom for a moment, in hopes of regaining a measure of control over my arousal. I brace my hands on the edge of the sink, head lowered, drawing deep calming breaths. But my respite is short lived. I hear the barely perceptible sound of the door swinging open and look up into the mirror to find you slowly advancing toward me. I move as though to turn toward you, but you stop me with a shake of your head. My back is to you, our gazes locked in the mirror, and you halt your advance only when your body is a hairsbreadth away from my own, your heat mingling with mine.
Still, you don’t touch me.
You lean forward, placing one hand immediately in front of my own on the edge of the sink, your mouth—your beautiful sensuous mouth—next to my ear. You tell me to take off my panties, and I gasp at the intimacy of your command. I hesitate for only a fraction of a second, but I know it’s too long, and your hand moves with decisiveness from the sink to the back of my neck, and I am slowly bent forward at your insistence, moaning now from the combined pleasure of your touch and the vulnerability of my position. With your other hand, you reach beneath my dress, fingers splayed, palm sliding up the inside of my thigh until you reach my wetness. I am drenched with my desire, and whisper only “Please,” but I am denied even now, and your knuckles only glance over my flesh as your fingers wrap around the fabric of my thong and tear it off with a firm jerk of your hand.
My body trembles in the wake of your controlled aggression. You relinquish your hold on my neck, your hand slowly descending, tracing the curve of my spine, moving outward until it rests lightly against my hip. I feel you then—for one brief, almost imagined moment, I feel you—feel the reflexive tightening of your grip in the same instant that I feel your hips rock forward, the thick length of your cock unmistakable against my ass. I close my eyes, drowning in the sensation of you pressed so tightly against me…but just as quickly, you’re gone. My eyes snap open and I cry out at the loss of your touch, but you are already moving to the door, holding it open and waiting for me to precede you out of the restroom, tucking my ripped panties into your suit jacket. I search your face for evidence of your desire, for some small sign that lets me know you are as affected by this exchange as I am, but your composure is intact, your face a mask that gives no emotion away.
We leave the restaurant, walking the short distance to the theater in silence, yours contemplative, mine tormented. I am awash with arousal, miserable with desire for you, and my body is proclaiming its need of you with wet, aching clarity. I am acutely aware that my sex is exposed beneath the thin veneer of my dress; the cool evening breeze kisses the moisture that has accumulated there and my cheeks flood with shame. I feel your knowing stare and struggle to regain my composure, but I can’t. I know that if you were to lead me down any of the shadowed alleys we are passing and push me to my knees, your hand knotted in my hair, pressing my face to the front of your suit pants, I would eagerly use lips and teeth and tongue to free your cock and greedily swallow the length of it. I would work your cock until I gagged, until every inch of you was wet with my saliva, until your breathing grew ragged and your hips jerked convulsively and you threw your head back with the force of the orgasm tearing through your body. I would beg you to let me touch myself; I’d stroke my clit for you right there—on my knees, on the pavement in that shadowed alley until my cunt clenched and my clit exploded and I cried out my pleasure for you.
But you don’t lead me down any alleys…you remain collected, smooth, and utterly in control.
Tosca is superb, but right now I hate Puccini. I hate the seconds and minutes and hours that stretch between this dark theater and lying naked beneath you. I hate that I think these thoughts, squirming quietly in my seat, when you are so clearly enjoying the performance. I feel like I am somehow letting you down because I can’t rise above this driving need pulsing through my body. I worry my hands distractedly in my lap, unable to keep them folded demurely as I should.
I gasp with surprise at the feel of your hand on my thigh and am immediately stilled by its solid pressure. Though I can’t make out the nuances of your expression, I feel your gaze locked on mine and feel a moment of quiet comfort—there is a measure of ease to be found in knowing that the play of emotions and wants coursing through my body is directed by you, like the maestro with his orchestra below.
With aching slowness, your hand traces invisible patterns across the top of my thigh. I scarcely breathe for fear that you will stop and am rewarded for my stillness when your hand dips lower, to the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh. The sound of the opera recedes, and my world narrows to the feel of you stroking me, inching closer to my wetness. Still, you keep me off balance, refusing to settle into a predictable rhythm; you stroke me and then pause, and I can do naught but tremble and hold my breath until you resume. Your fingers linger teasingly at the edge of my skirt until I bite my lip to keep from moaning aloud in supplication. Then, with a sinfully slow slide, they ease beneath the material and continue ever higher, until you are stroking my cunt, spreading my folds and taking possession of the wetness that meets you. My thighs spread farther apart of their own accord; this is my offering to you, this hot flood of arousal. Here in this confined space where I am stripped of words and actions to show you how I feel, it is all I have to offer. It is yours—it belongs to you, as surely as I do.
I know you approve because the heel of your hand clamps down on my pubic bone and your fingers penetrate my cunt so that you’re gripping me firmly, my slick sex held tightly in your palm. You lean into me and whisper that I’m going to come for you, right here in the middle of the theater, sitting perfectly still, and without making a sound. Your voice is like sex to me; I feel each word you breathe into my ear across my clit, so wet for you that it drools off your knuckles and trickles between the cheeks of my ass. I nearly come from your words alone and nod my head, though really, it’s not a question of agreeing. You slide your fingers out of my cunt and up to my clit, all teasing gone, demanding my orgasm with hard strokes, and then I’m coming in waves, cunt heaving as pleasure wracks my body. A second rush begins to coil in my belly but you stop your movement and say, “Enough,” and I gasp, halted immediately on the edge of that precipice and robbed of breath, the pain it produces as acute and intense as the pleasure that hammered through me moments ago.
You wait until the sensation subsides, then remove your hand, wiping it clean with a handkerchief produced from your pocket. I feel dizzy and disoriented, and the final moments of the opera pass in a blur of music and applause, bright lights, the buzz of conversation sliding past me. I am aware of only the firm pressure of your hand in the small of my back, guiding me through the noise and into the quiet of your car, and of the constant thrum of my arousal as you guide us skillfully through the night, your beautiful square jaw thrown into profile by the passing headlights of oncoming traffic.
You don’t touch me again until the door of your penthouse clicks shut behind us and you push me to the ground, one hand opening your fly even as your other reaches in to free your dick. I scramble to my knees as you grab the back of my head and then your cock is filling my mouth. I grab on to your legs to steady myself as you bury yourself in my throat with a rough thrust and I feel myself choke on your thick length, tears filling my eyes. I am filled with bliss, so wet I’m running down my thigh, thrilled at last to be able to touch you, to be used by you, to please you. You fuck my mouth and I struggle to take you in with some measure of grace but I cannot, and feel myself sinking into sensation: The feel of your suit pants beneath my fingertips. The wet slide of your cock over my lips. The feel of your hands knotted in my hair, pulling my head toward you in time with the rhyt
hm you drive out with your hips. Your smell, a heady combination of cologne and arousal assaulting my senses. The silence, broken only by the shallow erratic sound of my breathing.
I want you to come. I want to feel you unravel and lose control. I want to feel the tremor in your thighs, feel your hands tightening in my hair. I want to show you how good I am for you. But you have other ideas. You relinquish your hold on me and take a step back, robbing me of your warmth and support and I falter, kneeling awkwardly before you, eyes downcast.
“Look at me,” you say, and I do. I watch you release the button on your jacket and shrug it off, then toss it to a chair by the door. You remove your cufflinks, then your watch, placing them on the console table. You roll your sleeves up to mid-forearm, then unbutton your black oxford and leave it hanging open, lying in contrast to the white tank top revealed beneath. I drink in your appearance hungrily: your dark hair falling casually across your forehead, the slight flush staining your cheeks, your hard chest and taut stomach outlined by your tight white tank. I watch as one hand descends, wraps around your cock. I watch you stroke yourself, your cock still wet with my saliva. You are wildly beautiful, and I want you more than my next breath.
You tell me to get up, and with slow deliberation you close the gap separating us until I can feel your hot breath on my cheek and I need to look up to meet your eyes. You keep inching forward until I have no choice but to take a step back, and then another, until I’m up against the door with nowhere left to go. You ask me if I enjoyed dinner. I tell you I did. You ask me if I enjoyed the opera. I say yes. You shake your head, eyes glittering dangerously—I know better than to lie to you, you say. You pull my dress up until it’s bunched around my hips, and your fingers find me again, thrusting deep into my slick hole, your eyes never leaving mine as I gasp with pleasure. You press your body against mine, still inside me, fucking me with a hard, even rhythm, telling me how you watched me squirm in my seat, how you smelled my arousal, like some bitch in heat. “Isn’t that right?” you say, and I nod my agreement—I am whatever you tell me I am.
Please, Sir Page 8
